Skyrim
by Paddling The Pink Canoe
Summary: The developers of the Elder Scrolls series have fleshed out what is arguably one of the deepest and most involving fantasy worlds in gaming history, and playing the game certainly isn't the only way to get lost in such an immersive universe. The story is my attempt at providing a fresh and hopefully entertaining take on the Skyrim storyline.
1. Prologue I

(Update) January 2013, after 5 months of inactivity- Still alive. =)

(Update) July 2012, after 4 months of inactivity- Yes, I'm alive. Yes, I'm continuing my story. Yes, I intend to finish it all the way.

(Update) March 2012- Exams month coming up, disappearing for a bit.

My not-so-little take on the major Skyrim quest lines. This is my attempt to squeeze in as many main and side quests that I can think of into one very plausible and interconnecting story. I'm also trying to make it as original as possible so it'd probably be quite a departure, although not in a wacky way, from the official storyline.

I quite like having a whole cast of characters so please prepare to be bombarded by a lot of names, at least in the beginning. Although rest assured the majority are actual lore characters (Some may have slightly altered background histories to better fit my story but, for the most part, they'll hold true to whatever they're known for in the game).

After weighing in on how the story's going to be like, I decided to add 'Romance' on the category tag instead of 'Adventure' since it seemed a better fit. But please keep in mind that this is being written by one whose sex organs dangle and is paranoid of losing them if he starts writing too much sappy wappy stuff. (Don't roll your eyes at me, Claire.)

I'm an amateur writer; I don't know or care for any of that 'deep evolving characters' shtick, 'perfect' grammar, or fancy words that make sentences poetic sounding. I'm a fan who just wants to write cool fantasy stuffs with swords and dragons and lotsa' headbangin'!

Still here? Not repulsed yet? Well, the story... starts... now!

* * *

><p><strong>.<br>**

**.  
><strong>

**.  
><strong>

**.  
><strong>

**.  
><strong>

**PROLOGUE  
><strong>

**Actor Introductions Part One of Two: Hunter, Hunted, Dragon, God**

The trouble with settling down is that you never get a day's rest. As Selvia would oft remind him, a retired man is simply his wife's full-time job. And thus, whenever Selvia caught him sitting contentedly on their house's porch, she would quickly find some menial task around the farm that needed his immediate attention.

Not that his wife was a complete nag, but she certainly wasn't lacking in criticisms. And to be fair, Orgnar wasn't the most vibrant man in the world. Even back during his years of service—a life he'd long buried—he was as sprightly as a mudcrab sunbathing lazily on the beach.

It came as no great surprise then that he remained as solid and emotionless as a rock when his visitor finished speaking. They were at the den, each sitting and facing one another while Selvia and their five rambunctious kids looked on in curiosity by the kitchen's doorway.

"Five beautiful children," the visiting woman spoke up when it became clear that Orgnar was not going to. "You have a lovely family. And a wonderful farm. It's quite an achievement."

_You mean for me it is_, Orgnar added quietly. Admittedly, after the Great War ended, the veteran warrior spent a couple years or so in the company of less than savoury men. And only after a stint in prison did he finally decide to clean his act up.

Of course, ever the follower, his way of fixing up his life was by letting it be dictated completely by a farmer's homely daughter. Fortunately for him, the old farmer saw the union as a practical one. His daughter had the farm as a dowry, and Orgnar had the submissiveness of a gentle husband and also the martial means to protect Selvia and the family.

And now here he was, caught between the scrutinizing gazes of the two women in the whole of Nirn that held power over him.

Easier for him had he died during the war.

But there might be another way out of this mess, albeit a mad one. His eyes travelled above the fireplace where a simple yet serviceable one-edged blade was on display.

No one would know. The woman was a stranger to his neighbours, newly arrived to the area as she was. Just one swing of his sword and he could dump her body in the forest. He'd then pretend this meeting never happened and go on living his dull but danger-free life.

The woman however, after following Orgnar's gaze, smiled sweetly at him, clearly having read his thoughts.

"There are better uses for your swordarm."

"It's seeing enough use plowing farm soil."

"It's the end of the harvest season, Orgnar. And I'm sure the farm can live without you for a short while."

"A short while? You make it sound like I'll be coming back here."

The woman simply shrugged, unfazed by his glare.

It seems, for the life of him, Orgnar just couldn't ever get away from this woman. Or rather, from his past.

"Why me? Why not go haunt Marcus? Or Seven-Swords? Or _any_ of the others?"

"Because all the others are dead and Marcus won't leave his beloved Hammerfell behind. At least not while the Thalmor remain a threat to his home. As for Sev… well who knows which Oblivion plane that warlock's cavorting in. I've sent out the call, he'll come to us when he's ready."

"You still haven't answered my question. You've been doing well enough on your own pissing off the Thalmor since we disbanded. Why are you asking for my help now?"

The woman smiled and pulled back her coif to reveal an aging and weather-beaten face. "If I'm right, if St. Alessia's blood flows once more, then we have purpose once again. What that purpose is, I don't know but I intend to find out. And all indications point to the north. Your homeland."

"Well you don't need a guide for that. Skyrim's that way." Orgnar jerked his thumb northwards.

"I need someone I can trust, Orgnar. And someone who knows the land and its people. I'm not getting any younger. If I fall, I need you to—"

"If you fall, I'll leave your carcass where it lies and come running back home."

"That's fine," said the woman immediately. And she smiled. "We leave at first light."

"Now, hold on."

"From what I hear the rebellion leader, the Jarl of Windhelm, has been captured. So we should have little trouble sneaking past Skyrim's borders now that their civil war's just about ended."

"I said hold on."

"There's a passage through the Jerall Mountains—"

"Damn it, Delphine. I didn't agree to your mad scheme yet."

The visitor's smile grew nasty. "I never asked for your agreement. I'll remind you what I told everyone when we all separated. You're still Blades. The Emperor himself may turn his back on us but we won't do the same to his people. But whatever else, I don't intend to die without making the Thalmor pay for what they've done to us."

The den's atmosphere rose a few degrees in warmth. At the back, one of the children started crying. Orgnar sighed and stretched back on his chair.

"You're going to be the death of me, woman."

"That's what you'd say every time I sent you off on a mission." The smile softened.

"And it remains true each and every time I say it."

"So you are with me?"

"Tell me what your plan is first. Who or what are you looking for?"

"Hope. A leader. A hero. The Divines have cast the die and, for better or worse, the Dovah Sos flows once more in some unlucky soul's body. We're going to meet this 'chosen one' and then we're going to see what he's made of."

"And then what? Have him declare a rebellion against the Empire? On a land already ravaged by one?"

"There's no such thing as coincidence. There's a purpose for him being there and if it means bad news for the Thalmor then I'm with him."

Orgnar furrowed his brows and fell silent.

He looked over his shoulder to see Selvia staring right back at him. _You're going to go aren't you_, asked that solemn gaze.

The former farmer closed his eyes and looked away.

No, the real trouble with settling down is with the peaceful quiet.

It just never lasts.

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

.

.

A Thalmor, a dragon, and a God walk into an inn…

Or so the joke goes, the hooded woman mused. Of course, the Justicar did not enter alone, and the 'dragon' was in mortal form, oblivious and innocent to glorious powers hidden within him. As for the God…

The inn had a typical Nordic design. Spacious and rectangular, its open kitchen was separated only by a lengthy table which served as the bar. The rest of the inside opened up to the commons where tables and chairs of varying lengths and shape surrounded the massive hearth that took up most of the commons' central floor.

The fireplace was lit up bright. It amused the woman a little, as she watched the flickering flames cast shadows on the faces of the two groups glaring at each other in front of the hearth. It was symbolic in a way: Defiance on one side, Conviction on the other. A clash of nerves, emotions, and unyielding beliefs. She already knew that blood would be spilled this night. And it amused her how she had done naught a thing and yet playing out in front of her, and acted by mortals, was a quickly deteriorating situation rife with fear and tension. It was a delicious play indeed.

"If you hold dear to your filial ties so much then you should understand why you and your siblings are wanted," the Justicar was speaking, "They are citizens of your empire and are therefore subject to its laws. They are criminals, traitors to Skyrim. As per the stipulations of the White-Gold Concordat—"

"—damn your stipulations! And damn your laws! Turn tail the way you came, elf. You will not take me, my brother, _or _my sister away. The only thing we are guilty of is that of being true Nords!"

Huh.

So there's a sister.

The Concordat, an agreement that ended the war between the Aldmeri and the Empire, was the reason why everyone was now standing (or sitting, in the spectating woman's case) inside that inn. The Concordat was a masterful stroke, she was forced to admit. Though it was the Emperor Titus II who had initiated the treaty, it was the Aldmeri who got the better side of the deal. And it allowed them to continue to hurt the Empire in more ways than they could do in the battlefield. Not bad for mortals.

The peace agreement banned the worship of Talos, the ninth of the Divines and the only one to have been a mortal prior to ascending to godhood. Not including Sheogarath of course. And maybe Arkay.

The fact that Talos was once mortal was not what drew the ire of the elves. What angered them was the fact that he was a product of Man and _not_ Mer.

As such, the Thalmor, Aldmeri's ruling body, were given free rein to roam all over the Empire's lands, stamping out the heresy of Talos worship. In effect, just as the Aldmeri had hoped, the ban drew widespread fury in the province of Skyrim, home of the Nords.

Talos was a Nord after all. More than that, he was a hero. The hero of heroes, as any young Nord would proudly say before thumping a fist to his or her chest. Talos was revered and loved. And with the banning of his worship, the civil war between the Stormcloaks and the Imperials was born.

The woman—the only patron that didn't go scrambling out when the Justicar and his elven guards entered the inn—crossed her arms and scrutinized the two young men. They were weathered; both bore battle marks all round their muscled bodies. They were warriors in every which way you looked at them and that obvious fact did their claim of innocence no good. The calmer of the two was trying to restrain his brother, the one who had lashed back at the elf.

The furious man was Avulstein. His brother, Thorald. They had both escaped the siege of Whiterun. Now, they were pretending to be merchants trying to make their way to Cyrodiil via the sleepy village of Riverwood where the current debacle was being played out. But their true intentions were obvious to the woman, and clearly so to the Justicar.

With the capture of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and Pretender to the Nordic throne, the border guards had considerably slackened and the brothers had likely decided to take advantage of this fact. Unfortunate for them that their family name doomed them to a life as fugitives forever on the run.

The Justicar crossed his arms. "Your glorious rebel leader lies captured and awaiting execution and you, sons of Gray-Mane, his unrepentant allies, conveniently appear at the province's border? Shameful of you to try and escape the aftermath of your leader's defeat. I smell the cowardly stink of Talos on you."

"You are not fit to utter the Hero-God's name," Avulstein said coldly. He batted away his brother's restricting hands to stand defiantly in front of the Justicar who remained unimpressed. "As you so claim we are indeed Gray-Mane. The last of them, I might add. All hunted down mercilessly by you murderers and assassins!"

"You _will_ stand down, Nord. And you _will_ tell me the whereabouts of your sister."

Avulstein sneered. "I don't know where my wily sister is. Even if I did, I would never tell you. And the only way you're taking us into custody is by dragging our dead corpses out of those doors."

"That can be—"

"Tell me… what use is a mage without his mouth?"

And before anyone could react, Avulstein's giant fist came flying towards the Justicar's face. There was a sickening sound of crunching bones as the Nord's knuckles smashed into the elf's mouth, shattering teeth and sending spatters of red everywhere.

The Nord then grabbed a handful of the stunned elf's clothes before flinging him effortlessly towards the surprised guards who could do little but raise their arms.

The hooded woman watched with interest as the elves brandished their swords in unison and surrounded their injured leader. But her attention was not on them but on the two brothers now cornered on the other side of the inn.

Such defiance. Typical for mortals to mistake folly for spirit.

But one of them is no mere mortal, is he?

Though the real question is… which of the two holds the soul of a dragon? Which of the two holds the key to her freedom?

"What say we let fate decide," she spoke up suddenly in her sultry voice, much to the others' surprise. She stood up from her stool and, with seeming derision, walked casually between the two opposing groups who could only stare at her. She shrugged off their looks with disdain before stepping out of the inn.

Outside, the village of Riverwood was quiet save for the chirping of crickets and the gentle flow of the river. Masser and Secunda were out in full force, shining their moonlight down on the village and the hooded woman could see well into the distance because of it.

Nirn. The dead god Lorkhan's Daedra plane. So beautiful and so… _malleable_. It's no wonder that the Daedric princes consider it their playground. There's just so much material to work with. Even in this small village alone… she closed her eyes and opened up her true ears.

They came as whispers at first, and then as torrential screams. The dreams and nightmares of the village's sleeping denizens. Each one different from the other, each one just as interesting.

She stood giddy and aroused as the dreams swirled all around her, exciting her fully. Her moment of ecstasy would be disrupted however as the clash of steel on steel reverberated from behind. She sighed as she stepped out of the inn's porch, ignoring the furniture that came flying out of the windows.

She walked onwards, towards the outskirts of the village. The journey was but a few steps and she soon found herself entering a more forested area, though the river still flowed on nearby. She stopped at a small clearing beside the road, a place where a simplistic shrine stood, strategically placed so as to be seen by travellers coming from both ends.

The statue was made of Travertine rock, a form of limestone likely having been mined from one of the many caverns under the city of Markarth far to the west. Though the body and pedestal were weather-worn, the statue's face appeared clear and unblemished.

"Mara," the woman muttered venomously. She pulled back her hood, allowing the moonlight to reflect on her bright grey eyes. Combined with her alabaster skin and chiseled cheekbones, the moonlight gave her a near-ethereal appearance.

"Your pathetic curse is soon to be lifted. You should have killed me when you had the chance."

She stood still, maintaining her glare on the statue of a beautiful woman looking kindly down at her. _Kindly_. Bah. Mortals are so easily deceived.

"Wake up, old hag."

There was no response at first and the croaking of insects was all that could be heard. Eventually, there came a rustling of leaves as a slight wind blew through the clearing. The pale-skinned woman showed no surprise when a soft and matronly voice echoed all around her.

"Leave such thoughts of murder to your kin Boethiah for he is far more suited to them than you are. And I have never intended to kill you, not before and not now."

"Your compassion is your weakness, Goddess of Love. Once I have the Dragonborn free me of your curse, you will rue the day you showed pity on me."

"Curse? It is a gift. A lesson if you will, but never a curse. You sought to see the dreams of a God and you are being disciplined because of your folly."

"Discipline me? Hah! For what lesson have I learned? Nothing, save the fact that the dreams of the Divines are as boring as my kin's."

"Was it truly boredom that made you assault my temple and attempt to intrude in my dream-sleep? No, you sought something that the Aedra or the Daedra cannot provide for you. But I have given you this gift. This moment of mortality if you will, for you are seeing this world in a way few other immortals have. You see it at its most terrible beauty. And from it, you will answer what has long been bothering you."

"You ramble, old woman. I will soon be returned to my true self. You may be impervious to my designs but your followers are easy prey for my vengeance."

"I wonder if your task will be as simple as you think…" said the fading voice, "And I wonder if you will still be the same when you reach the end of your journey…"

"I am what I always have been. I acknowledge your power but it is presumptuous of you to think that you can bend me to your will. Truly, your arrogance shows how little difference there is between your kind and mine."

"I have never thought for there to have ever been a difference between us. We are one and the same. I have always acknowledged that fact. Thus I seek not to change an adversary but simply to guide a long-lost sister. What you sought in my dreams, what you sought in all the dreams of mortals which you've swam in, you will not find through your usual means. Instead, I can only set you on the right path, albeit an unusual one. The rest of the journey, lies on you…"

With the dying voice came the calming of the wind as the leaves stopped rustling and the branches above grew still. And only when the sound of the flowing river could be heard again, did the woman realize for certainty that she was alone once more.

She gritted her teeth and stared up at Mara's statue. "You will pay… Sanguine's tits, you will pay!"

Her anger shaped a thought: an image of destruction compacted into a tight sphere. When the sphere grew difficult to contain, she let loose her anger and the sphere exploded outwards within her mind. At the same time, and by her will, the statue burst into a spray of shattered stone and dust.

It was the simplest of incantations, but it annoyed her to feel a slight strain at the back of her head. She felt weak. Here she was but a dream-thought, a shadow of her true self which was bound, quite ironically in her case, in eternal slumber thanks to Mara's shackles.

She needed to break the curse. And she will.

As if agreeing with her thoughts, the conflict back at the inn spilled out into the streets. She watched from afar as one of the brothers, hand against a growing red stain on his side, stumbled down the street towards her.

She met him halfway, right by the village gates where he finally gave in and collapsed. From the inn, the enraged Justicar came running out with his men. It was worth noting that, of the elves who had entered the inn, less than half had come out.

"Color me surprised. I thought the Divines would have chosen your brother. He had… grit. Although the Divines always do go the fool route when it comes to making important choices."

"What…?" Thorald looked up at her with glazed eyes. "My brother… he's dead. They killed him."

"So they have. And they come for you next. It seems Sovngarde beckons," the woman replied, causing Thorald's eyes to water as he was filled with thoughts of the Nordic heaven. Sovngarde was his people's own little realm in Aetherius, the Immortal Plane. The latter was the home of the Divines and, to less-knowing mortals, the opposite of Oblivion, the plane of the Daedra.

As if sensing what he was thinking, the woman frowned and continued speaking. "Yes you could indeed surrender to death right at this moment, allowing you to join your dead ancestors in eternal drink and song. But are you yet that deserving of such a reward? It seems to me that you still have many matters in Nirn left unfinished. So what will you do, son of Ysmir? Will you keel over and die now?"

"No, not yet. I must find my sister. And get her out of Skyrim." The Nord struggled to get up only to collapse once more right on the woman's feet. His face had gone white, his blood drained.

"You'll not find her around my toes, warrior." She bent down to cup Thorald's face by the chin. "And you needst first avenge your dead brother."

"Avenge…?"

"Yes, your brother. The dead one. Sovngarde and all that. Killed by your friends about to come upon us."

"Friends..?"

The woman hissed. "What are you, an echo?"

She roughly twisted Thorald's head around. The Thalmor were now cautiously advancing towards them in a crescent formation. The Justicar, having apparently recovered from his wounds, was in the middle, flanked by two sword-wielding guards on each side. The Justicar wore traditional robes but his guards had on their armor made seemingly of burnished gold.

The wounded Nord immediately scrambled up to his feet. He wavered uneasily for a moment before regaining his balance. He then pulled the woman behind him in a gruff but protective manner.

The latter raised a brow at this. "You mean to protect me while unarmed and so close to death? Your little manly act borders more on the pathetic than chivalrous."

"Don't flatter yourself. I was actually thinking of throwing you at them before diving into the river."

The woman smirked. "You Nords and your mentality of throwing things at any problem that comes at you… If you will recall, it did your dear brother no good."

Thorvald stiffened and did not reply.

"Oh don't pout," the woman said after glancing at Thorald's face, "I never could understand a mortal's need for 'family'. Now stand aside and I will do you the grand favor of saving your life. Then after, we will talk about how you can repay it."

And before he could ask what this stranger of a woman meant, the muscle-bound Nord, easily twice the woman's size, found himself flying in the air before landing on his back, several feet behind. The woman then smiled before returning her attention to the bloodied Justicar now cautiously stepping forward.

"You must be a witch," the Justicar's words came rasping out of devastated lips, "For you to be able to throw him with those thin and delicate wrists."

"Strength does not come from the body, Inquisitor. It comes from an unconquerable will."

"Then from your words, I would boldly demand that you stand aside, citizen. We have no quarrel with you and this is an Imperial-sanctioned hunt. The Nord belongs to us."

"Have him. Kill him for all I care. But don't you think it contradicts with the grand designs of your Thalmor overlords? A divided Skyrim is of benefit to your Aldmeri homeland after all. The further continuation of resistance, no matter how minor, would surely aid in your people's eventual conquest of these lands; It wouldn't do to be killing off one side completely."

"You know too much, woman. Who are you?"

"Does it matter who I am?" She casually raised both her hands in a shrug before pointing at the Justicar. The latter's eyes fell on her finger, fascinated by her clear translucent nail.

"I am no one, merely an admirer of your work. But we are talking about _you_ here. The clever Inquisitor who snares the land with his masterful web of cunning and deceit. The people are but puppets, playing to your every whim."

"They are… but puppets."

"Indeed. By your manipulative designs, wars are fought and lives are lost. You are the first among the Thalmor, a master of manipulation, and a rival of the Webspinner herself. You are the true God of Lies."

"A true God…" whispered the Justicar. The pretty nail sparkled under the moonlight.

His men looked at each other uncertainly. One cleared his throat and stepped forward.

"Lord Justicar, the Nord fugitive—"

"What is this?" the woman withdrew her hand in mock horror as she rounded on the guard. She then looked angrily at the Justicar. "Someone would dare defy your authority? Someone would dare impede your plans?"

The Justicar's eyes blazed with fury and he turned to face the guard who froze in uncertainty. The guard thought to raise his sword, hesitated, then looked at his companions who were just as bewildered as he was.

"Lord Justicar—"

"Silence!" the Justicar and the woman roared at the same time. The elven mage then flicked a hand and a burst of flame travelled from his wrist to his fingers. The fire gathered into a spherical mass an inch away from his palm. And when all the fire had collected, the sphere went flying straight towards the stunned guard's face.

The guard snapped back and fell to the ground as the flames rapidly ate through the fat of his face. The reddish flames then travelled along the inner contours of his helmet, engulfing his whole head. His comrades could only watch in shock as he rolled and struggled wordlessly on the ground.

Before long, the spasms stopped and the body remained motionless though the flames burned on. The sight of their companion's now-blackened helmet and charred head caused the remaining three guards to skitter away from the Justicar with their swords raised.

"And the rest of the traitors reveal themselves!" the Justicar and the woman shouted angrily in unison, "You would mutiny against me? _Me?_"

"The witch!" one of the guards shouted at his companions, "Kill her! She's—"

Another ball of fire erupted out of the Justicar's sleeve to engulf the one who had spoken up. Almost immediately, the two remaining guards rushed forward with swords raised, and the battle was on.

The sound of swords clashing and the screams of pain echoed throughout the valley and Thorald could only wonder how none of the villagers had been awoken by the noise or by the bursts of fiery light that illuminated every window of every house. Perhaps they did awaken, preferring simply to cower in their basements until the mischievous demons above have passed on.

Eventually, everything quieted down. The Justicar, now missing the whole of his right arm, remained standing in laboured breath around four dead bodies roasted beyond recognition. With a muffled whimper, he fell to his knees. Tears flowed freely from his eyes.

The pale-skinned woman must have been a terrible sight then, as she strode, like an angel of judgement, to the distraught elf's side. She bent down until her face was right beside the Justicar's. "With the eagerness of how you'd dispatched your friends, I'm almost tempted to think you an agent of Mephala."

The Justicar turned to face her, anguish written all over his face. "But… but I didn't— You did—"

The woman pulled away, as if taken aback. "Well obviously I didn't kill them. I was just standing here, helpless and unarmed." She clucked her tongue, showing her disappointment. "Would you shame yourself and the spirits of your friends by denying their murder? By your hand?"

"No! I didn't! It wasn't… I wasn't—"

"They are dead, you are alive. And now you must pay for your crime." She gently took hold of his remaining hand and placed it on the side of his face. "It is the only honorable thing for you to do," she said gravely.

The Justicar burst into heaving sobs as he felt the familiar tingling of magical power gathering from his wrist. His hand, placed firmly on his cheek, grew rapidly in warmth.

"Please… Please!" he shrieked as the sphere of fire began forming around and inside his flesh. He tried to force himself to stop, to cancel the incantation, or even to just jerk his hand away. But that sweet, soft voice said no. He must do the honorable thing.

There was a sizzling sound as his tears came into contact with the licking flames on the left of his face. His vision flashed white, then black, and then white again as that voice inside his head willed him to stay awake, to stay lucid and aware of every agonizing moment of pain.

And it was through that sickening transition of consciousness, and through the blurry fog cast by his tears, that he saw the pair of terror-stricken eyes staring right at him. With a resolve that surprised even that dominating voice in his head, he called out to those eyes, not in desperation but in determination.

His words were nothing more than several croaks of empty air as most of his mouth was already charred to cinder and ash, but Thorald understood full well the Justicar's request.

Ignoring the sharp pain from his side, he jumped up to his feet all the while appropriating a sword from one of the slain guards. He rushed forward and roughly pulled the woman away before ramming the sword right into the Justicar's chest.

Thorald watched as gratitude so genuine flashed in the Justicar's eyes right before they closed in finality. And just like that, he felt the anger, the anguish from his brother's death, slip and melt away from him in waves. Instead of hate, he felt pity for the dead elf he now cradled in his arms.

"Sanguine's tits!" exclaimed the woman in anger as she picked herself up and dusted off her robes, though the cloth, like her skin, appeared clean and fresh as if magically enchanted to resist dirt and wear. "You Nords are but barbarians! I am tempted to shrivel your Ox-like arms before you throw—"

"Enough of your witchcraft, woman." Thorald looked back at her coldly.

The woman sneered. "This is the gratitude I get for—"

"The fact that I haven't rammed this sword into you is gratitude enough. You cloud men's minds and delight in their torture and suffering. The agent of the Webspinner here is you. Either that or you are Mephala herself in flesh-form."

The woman cackled in laughter. "You are not as stupid as I thought, mortal. But I am not Mephala. In any case, you _will_ repay the favor you owe me."

Thorald rose with the sword gripped firmly in his hand. "I'll not do your bidding—"

"Oh?" The woman smiled and Thorald became acutely aware of the dead bodies around them. The woman laughed again. "Very well, your mind I will endeavour to keep cloudless and free of _anyone's_ grasp. But you will pay me back. And if you agree, perhaps I could help in your little search for your sister."

Thorald said nothing for a while though his grip on his sword had considerably slackened. The wound on his side was getting worse and he wavered from where he stood. "What could a powerful witch like you possibly want from me? If you seek play-toys to torture, I'll gladly point you to the nearest Imperial camp."

The woman smiled again before stepping forward to stand a few inches away from Thorald's face. Her eyes were a bright grey, almost dreamy, but Thorald thought he saw a hint of something alien behind them. "What do you want?" he demanded once more.

"Your help." The woman looked away. "It pains me to admit it but I have need of your expertise."

"There are plenty of swords for hire in Whiterun. All of them healthy and not dying from blood loss—"

"I care not for your brutish sword arm," the woman cut in sharply, "All I need is your mouth, your lips that can voice out my freedom. It is amusing really. With your Voice, you are able to dispel magic cast by the very same gods that gave you the ability to do so."

"My what? You—"

"Your Voice! Your Thu'um! Your gift bestowed upon you by the damnable Divines!"

"Have you mistaken me for Jarl Ulfric or one of the Greybeards? Barring perhaps a few, only they have the gift of the Voice. Unless you think me the Dragonborn—"

"I don't think it, I know it." The woman stepped closer and placed a hand on Thorald's chest. The latter flinched from her light touch but did not move. "And now I am certain."

The woman smiled widely in what seemed like genuine happiness. Her face softened and Thorald saw, for a short moment, a delicate woman smiling pleasantly at him.

"You are mad," Thorald finally said before moving away. He gingerly kneeled down beside the Justicar and began checking the dead elf's pockets for whatever valuables or necessities he could find. Forget trying to cross the border and escaping Skyrim. With Avulstein dead, their sister was the only one he had left. The last of the Gray-Manes.

Behind him, the woman crossed her arms. "I am not as stubborn to demand that you believe me right at this moment. I will coax your Dragon power out of you if I must. And in return you will grant me my freedom."

Thorald sighed and went back to work. Aside from a few coin pouches and the sword, the Justicar and his men carried no medicines, bandages, or anything else of use. He struggled to get up, couldn't, and was finally forced to use the sword for leverage.

He managed to stay straight for a couple of seconds before finding himself falling back down on the ground. The night sky spun up above him. He could not feel the pain from his wound anymore, his whole body having seemingly gone numb. At least he had a nice starry view on his way to Sovngarde… if only the damnable woman would stop blocking it.

"I'd conjure up some harrowing scenario that your sister could be in right now but I don't think you'll be able to get back up this time with willpower alone. It's unfortunate, but healing really never was one of my strong suits. Meddling with the School of Restoration seemed rather counter-intuitive for someone like me, you see."

"Wh… Wha—"

"Yes?" the woman kneeled down close to his face, her expression blank and innocent.

"What do you… want?"

"Why, nothing large. I just want my freedom. Surely you, soldier of Stormcloak, would understand such a want. I am simply one among many oppressed by the Divines. In fact—"

"—just... Just leave me be, woman. I've a hard time hearing Sovngarde beckon amidst your mad rambling…"

The woman smiled a happy smile again. She was amused. There was definitely something wrong with her sense of humor.

"My rambling is the only thing that's keeping you alive, Thorald Gray-Mane. And since your misguided Nordic pride prevents you from asking my help directly, I shall just give it to you outright. In return I will only demand that you allow me to awaken your Dovah Sos. And once you have granted my boon, you will have done away with me and you will have a power so strong added to your arsenal that you could outright end this war just as easily as it had been started."

Thorald looked past her and at the sky. Though the resentment had been long in brewing, the civil war officially began when Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of of Windhelm, tore High King Torygg into pieces with the use of his Voice. It was powerful indeed, but its true strength came from what it symbolized. Defiance. From a roaring lion.

"If that does not impress you," the woman continued, "Then think of what's left of your kin. You can restore glory to your outlawed family if you wish. If nothing else, it will aid you well in protecting your sister."

"My sister is a first among warriors. Swords and magic, she can easily wield and defeat. No, what she needs is protection from herself…"

The woman raised a brow questioningly.

"Her heart. For a Nord, her heart is too… mellow. She has fought many battles and yet she is weak to kindness and forgiveness… she has strange morals." Thorald chuckled briefly, if somewhat labouredly, as he recalled some past moment from a happier time.

"Compassion is it? Weakness indeed! Now _that_ is something we can finally agree on! Very well, enough talk," the woman placed one hand over Thorald's eyes and the other on his wound, "If you wish to protect your sister from such serious danger, you should then go to her side. I'll admit to having understood a little bit of a mortal's concept of 'family', thus I would think the only one who could protect her from herself is you, her last remaining brother."

Thorald gasped as a sharp pain erupted from his abdomen and shot through to his head. He felt the pain stab through his skull and to his gums. It was as if his teeth threatened to uproot on their own. He tried to struggle but found that he was unable; either he was too weak to do so or the woman had cast something on him.

"Be still. As I have said, healing is not my calling. In fact, I revel in the opposite. As you rightly assumed, I relish in the cries of those under torture. But in your case, I do not cause pain for my own pleasure."

"What…are you—"

"Blood is blood, mortal. And pain begets pain. In the cycle of a mortal's life, after pain comes mending." She pulled back and stood up. She looked down at her hands for a moment, as if perplexed, before violently shaking her head, chasing away the strange thoughts that briefly invaded her mind.

"Must be Mara's curse getting to me," she muttered.

"Mara?" Thorald asked weakly as he forced his head up to look at his wound. Blood was still everywhere but the wound itself had closed up into an angry red welt.

"Mara. The goddess of compassion. Goddess of weakness, more like."

"So… when you said something about dispelling some god's magic, you were talking about Mara…? By the Divines, what did you do to have earned their curse? From peace-loving Mara of all—"

"Enough. I only healed your flesh; you are still weak everywhere else. You should rest."

"But—"

"You'll know soon enough." The woman suddenly found herself irritated. She knelt down once more and placed a hand on Thorald's forehead. "Sleep, Thorald Gray-Mane. We have a long journey ahead of us."

Thorald tried to protest but a heavy drowsiness suddenly overcame him. He forced his eyes to blink a few times and concentrated on the woman.

"Who… are you?"

"You'll not believe me if I tell you. And so, like with that power hidden within you, I will _show_ you instead of telling you. Now sleep… and dream."

Thorald felt like he was being battered by sleep-demons and the only way to escape them was to give in to slumber. But even as he slept, he found no rest as he found himself still being chased. Only this time the demons had turned into dragons, massive wicked monsters with black wings and demonic eyes. They raged with fire and mocked him, calling him a pretender, a fake, and a liar.

Eventually, the dragons turned into the Thalmor inquisitors, with the Justicar alive and well leading the chase. That's when Thorald realized that there were three others running beside him. The first to fall was their mother, Fralia, who urged them to go on even as she was trampled by the uncaring elves. The next to fall was his brother, Avulstein, and he too shouted that they go on as he tried to slow down the Justicar by tugging at his leg.

Thorald stumbled as a sword silenced his brother for good. He found arms quickly pulling him up, and his sister, beautiful and strong, running beside him and urging him to keep moving. He nodded and they held hands as they ran onwards towards the murky gray in front of them, mysterious and perilous though it may have been.

But just as he feared, his sister too was taken, yanked away from his grasp. He turned back frantically to see her in the arms of someone clad from head to foot in Imperial armor. As he ran back to reach for her, a whole swarm of Imperial soldiers came running towards him, calling him an outlaw, pushing him away, further into the gray.

Eventually, he succumbed and fell to the ground. He was stepped and prodded on by the faceless soldiers who ignored his cries of pain. A feet away from him he noticed a torn banner suffering the same fate. It was the banner of House Gray-Mane.

He felt tears sting at his eyes as he surrendered to misery. Oh, how he wished to have stopped the woman from healing him, to let him journey on to Sovngarde. The woman... why was he thinking of her?

Suddenly, he saw a face behind all the marching Imperial boots. It was the woman, sitting back and watching, much as she had been doing back then at the inn. Although instead of being amused, her face looked serious, questioning even, as if trying to understand the Imperials' marching order. She did not seem to have noticed him.

Thorald frowned at her, wondering what she was doing here. Then suddenly it hit him. Of course, she'd be here; it's her realm after all. Her realm… Of Dreams and Nightmares.

He looked deeply into the Daedra's eyes, inquisitive and curious as they were, and there he understood what she was looking for, what she wanted. His heart lightened, perhaps out of pity, and he felt a presence behind the woman who shared his sentiment.

He glanced past the woman to see the chains, her 'curse', that was holding her back. He looked further beyond them to identify the presence, the one who held onto the restraints, and was surprised to find another woman smiling warmly back at him. It was Mara. He was certain of it yet he knew not why. And he also realized that the goddess was not holding on to the chains. In fact, there were no chains at all. Mara laughed heartily before waving at him.

All these, the pale-skinned woman had not noticed. And much to her surprise, the nightmare abruptly ended. The Gifter of Dreams looked wildly about as everything around her faded into black. She muttered a curse before turning around and tugging futilely at the chains that only she could see. Eventually she gave up, and Thorald collapsed his sub-consciousness, allowing himself to fall into a dreamless sleep.

Back in Mundus, the Daedric Lord, Vaermina, snapped open her eyes, blazing with fury as they were. Mara's curse affecting even her ability to walk on dreams was the last straw. Oh, when she gets her revenge... she looked down at the sleeping Thorald and her eyes gleamed.

But first things first.

How, in Sanguine's tits, was she supposed to carry this giant lummox out of here?


	2. Prologue II

**Actor Introductions Part Two of Two: The Music Makers, The Movers and Shakers**

"Did you hear? We got a shiny new Captain arriving today. A young 'un."

Hadvar looked across the table and at the Corporal but said nothing. It was all the talk in the Company. Their previous Captain, an aged Cyrodiilic named Luther Oranius, was well-respected among the Forlorn Hope. He was a hard act to follow.

"Bet he'd never seen a day of battle in his life," the Corporal continued, "Way I hear it, he's a city boy from Whiterun Hold sent here to suck up to the General."

Sitting on Hadvar's right, a large bearded man growled and ran a hand through his shaved head. He then slammed his fist down on the table. "Quit stalling, Dancer, and make your call. I know when you start yapping like this, you got nothing on hand."

The Corporal smiled, unfazed. "And I know, War-Bear, predictable as you are, that when you start getting impatient, you have something more than a triad and a pair."

The large man, aptly called War-Bear, flinched and covered his cards. He looked accusingly at the fourth person at the table, a thin and unassuming man on Hadvar's left. The man was a Cyrodiilic, his age undecipherable.

"Don't look at me, my friend. I did not bewitch these cards," said the man named Branding.

"You did it last time."

"Last time, we were playing for that rusty sword you found in that sewer-temple the General had us clean out right after Whiterun's siege. That sword was cursed, old friend. I had to take it off your hands."

"Well you didn't have to take all my gold along with it," said War-Bear gruffly, "And what happened to that damn thing anyway? I don't think I've seen you swing a sword in all the time I've known you."

"It's buried in my trunk. I thought it would make a good walking stick for when the General starts force marching us to some gods-forsaken corner of the world."

Dancer frowned and leaned forward, "You needing a cane now? Rockjoint could do that to you. How _old_ are you, magician?"

The other smiled but did not answer. There was a growing pool going on in the Cohort. At last count, there was almost a thousand gold pieces waiting to be awarded to whoever could correctly guess Branding's age.

Dancer sighed. "Well expect to get a lot of use out of that sword-cane what with the way the General's been running us ragged. I swear he has it in for us." He glanced casually at Hadvar. The others waited for their Sergeant to respond.

It was all that wasn't being talked about in the Company. Though everyone was thinking it, nobody dared to speak out loud. Until now, anyway. And with Hadvar as the acting officer-in-charge, at least until their new Captain arrived, they expected him to answer their suspicions. They'd never have said anything if Luther was still around.

"Except he's dead," Hadvar suddenly spoke up, "Luther's dead, Dancer. Did Tullius have him killed? I don't know. Has the General been running us ragged? More so than any of the other Companies. The General may have enjoyed making the old Captain suffer, but you know he's not foolish enough to have killed him outright."

"But Luther—"

"The Captain was in a bad side of town when they found him; also, his boots and money pouch were gone. You know he was weak to women's charms. He was probably lured into that damnable alley and stabbed in the back by some hooker."

This time it was War-Bear who spoke up in dispute. "The Captain wasn't that stupid to be going out drinking and womanizing alone and you know it, Sergeant. Someone must have been with him that night. Someone he trusted. And that someone's the one that gutted him behind the back. The Captain only lets down his guard when he's with people he trusts, you know that. We all do."

They fell silent and Hadvar became acutely aware that the other tables around them had followed suit. Everyone in the barracks was listening in with bated breath. _Gods, what was I supposed to tell them_, thought Hadvar to himself. Everyone knew that Luther and Tullius began their military careers together. What started off as a close friendship between the two eventually became a bitter rivalry that would go on to span decades.

Eventually, Tullius was given leadership of the Empire's Expeditionary Forces and Luther was placed under his command. And the Captain was too much of an Imperial to disobey orders. So he did his duty and bore the brunt of Tullius' malice. And the men under Luther's command suffered alongside him.

They were far to the west, at Hammerfell, after the Great War against the Aldmeri. Ordered to defend to the death alongside their Redguard comrades-at-arms, the Company kept on fighting even after the war ended, what with the Redguards' refusal to honor the treaty. The order of withdrawal came late with many suspecting that Tullius had plenty to do with the delay.

When they finally pulled back to Imperial-controlled lands, only about half of their Centuria remained. Tales of heroic deeds followed in their wake. From then on, Emperor Titus' 2nd Skirmisher Company came to be known as the Forlorn Hope.

Fast forward a couple decades later, newer faces would replace most of the company's members but many others remained, Luther amongst them. And with his sudden murder, the irony of the Company's adopted name lay heavy on everyone's mind.

The silence within the barracks was eventually broken by another Cyrodiilic from a neighboring table. "There may be another culprit for the murder," began the man, and eyes shifted towards him.

Branding grunted and looked at the man disdainfully. "Reading too deep into this again, Corporal Martin? You're always too quick to come to Tullius' aid."

The man named Martin reddened. "The General has saved our arses more than once. If it weren't for him, Skyrim would have long been lost. Hate him as much as you like, you'd still choose him over the young queen to lead the army against the rebels."

"The Jarl is not Queen yet," remarked Branding, "And were I to have been allowed to choose, I'd have chosen Luther's leadership over anyone else's."

"Except he's dead," he added after glancing at Hadvar, "Nonetheless, you forget I've also been with Tullius and Luther since they graduated out of the academy, and I can tell you the General certainly has the motive and drive to bury his old friend six feet under the frozen ground."

Corporal Martin simply shook his head and did not reply. Dancer, meanwhile, was frowning at Branding. "Seriously, magician. How old are you?"

Branding smiled mysteriously. "Old enough to have known your mother when she was still smooth between the legs."

Dancer stiffened and War-Bear roared with laughter. The chatter and bustle in the barracks resumed as the soldiers went back to their ale and card games. War-Bear was once more demanding that Dancer reveal his hand.

Hadvar, however, was silent and thoughtful. Eventually, he tossed his cards to the center of the table. "I'm out," he said to the inquiring onlookers before standing up and moving to the next table. He motioned at Martin to follow before heading outside to the cool crisp night.

Corporal Martin dutifully followed his superior and they walked on in silence. They were in one wing of the Blue Palace, the Jarl of Solitude's abode, where they had appropriated one section of the royal guards' barracks. The two veterans both climbed a stairs leading up to the walls.

From above, they were rewarded with a view of much of the Sea of Ghosts to the north and the rest of the Hold of Haafingar to the south. The grand city was perched atop a mountain cliff and was nigh impregnable. That was a fact that Hadvar was well aware of. He was also well aware that any invading force out there with half a brain would instead try to take the city through more covert means.

And that was why the Company was garrisoned in the Blue Palace and not at Castle Dour, the Imperial bastion situated on the other side of the city. Solitude was under siege, and not by catapults and armies.

Hadvar finally sighed and his breath was a misty white against the bitter winds blowing in from the Padomaic Ocean.

"Three more months before the snow starts melting, I'd say," Martin muttered as he wrapped his fur cape around him, "Can't wait when the General finally lets us go back to Dour; we just have to hold out for two more weeks. Two weeks and they'll finally hang that bastard or whatever the natives are supposed to do in that damned festival of theirs... I mean the Palace is great and all, with its clean sheets and pretty maids, but its walls… they're just…"

His voice trailed off but Hadvar nodded in agreement. Patrolling the hallways at night, and even during the day, Hadvar could feel an unnatural coldness seeping out of the Palace walls. And it wasn't just the cold. The whole Palace always seemed to give Hadvar that troubling feeling as if eyes were staring at his back. But every time he'd turn around, there was nobody there, just shadows and the cold, cold air.

As some of the servants would claim, the unnatural vibe was the spirits of Solitude's past rulers making their presence known. All cursed, and all unwilling to let go of their grasp on power. It is an inherent nature of servants to be superstitious, but after a week of patrolling the Palace, Hadvar was inclined to believe that there was more truth than superstition in their gossips.

"We should have killed him," Martin spoke up again, "The General should have let us kill him right then and there. I mean no one would have known; we could have just said Ulfric resisted capture and fought on to his death. It was just the Company who was there. After all, Luther was the one who set up the ambush without Tullius being aware of it until it was already happening. Why did Luther stand down at the last minute?"

"Are you criticizing the General now?"

Martin looked away. "I didn't say Tullius makes right decisions all the time," he mumbled, "It's just… Luther—"

"The Captain was just being himself. You were there; Ulfric was on his knees and Luther was just about to lop his head off when Legate Rikke came riding down the road, shouting at him to stop. If he killed Ulfric, he'd have had to kill Tullius' damn crony too. And you _know_ he's not that kind of man. And had he killed Ulfric and let Rikke live, the Legate would have bee-lined back to the General and Luther would have been clapped in irons for insubordination, never mind that he just single-handedly ended the war."

The Corporal was about to reply but bit back his tongue. It was the sensible truth. And yet here they were with Luther dead and Ulfric still alive, to be guarded by the same people who captured him no less. Where was the sense in that?

To make matters worse, Luther wasn't the only one who was murdered in the city. Imperials—particularly officers and hard-line Empire supporters—were being picked off long before the Cohort had arrived. Rikke had since ordered the soldiers to always travel in two's, particularly at night.

And War-Bear was right; the Captain may not have been able to control his vice, but he'd still have had enough sense to have someone accompany him on his tour of the city's whorehouses. Except no one knew who had gone with him. Many claim it was Tullius himself. They say it was supposed to have been a night of reconciliation between the two, as proposed by the General himself. They say the General was jealous; it was Luther who captured Ulfric after all.

Luther was stabbed in the back by a serrated blade. He was a master of weapons. No one, not even with the aide of magic, could have taken him by surprise like that. No, the only reason that blade drove home through his guts was because he wasn't expecting it.

But the driving point for those who think Tullius did the deed was the fact that Luther's killing was done differently as compared to all the past murders. As for his stolen valuables, many contend that it was just a cover-up to have his murder look like a common robbery. But the Forlorn knew that their Captain was not one to have fallen easily to bandits.

Hadvar shook his head and regarded the Corporal. "When you said that there may be another culprit, who did you mean?"

Martin looked around suspiciously, as if the Palace itself was listening in on their conversation. After he was satisfied, he replied, "The Wolf Queen, of course."

Hadvar looked at him dubiously. "You're actually buying into all that ghost talk?"

Martin shrugged. "Why not? Okay, look. Level with me: Over our tenure, we've seen all sorts of sights, from the impossible to the insane, yes?"

Hadvar nodded. The Forlorn were weathered, to say the least.

"So, can we also agree that the former queen of this city—long dead for some five hundred years, and who quite arguably holds the greatest grudge against the Empire that toppled her from her seat of power—was and is the greatest necromancer that has ever roamed Tamriel?"

"You saying she somehow resurrected her dead self?"

Martin shrugged again. "I'm no magician. But I know well enough that when magic's involved, anything is possible."

"Fine," Hadvar sighed, "Let's assume it _is_ her spirit skulking around dark alleys and killing anyone with the slightest bit of sympathy for the Empire. But why now? Why show up now? And if she really is the great magician everyone seems to think she is, why doesn't she just straight up raise an army of undead and march it all the way to the White-Gold? Why bother murdering pawns here in the streets of Solitude when she could just go after the Emperor herself?"

"Who knows. Maybe she's bound to the city. They never actually found her body. According to the books, the Empire army just collapsed the whole city around her and built the new one—the one you're standing on now—over it. Who knows what's under the city. As for why she's only showed up now… who knows."

Hadvar looked at him balefully. "Your theory is full of holes, Corporal. So what does this all have to do with the Captain's murder? You've heard the arguments: Luther's killing was different; it was a straightforward kill. One thrust and that was it; there was no note, no message of warning to the Imperials. All the other murders that happened before we got here had a common thread: there was always some little token or other left behind mocking the Empire in some way or other."

"Maybe the Wolf Queen wasn't in the mood for mocking. She might have thought killing the Captain would be the closest she'll ever get to having her revenge on the Imperial bloodline so she left nothing to chance."

"What do you mean? What does the Emperor's bloodline have to do with Luther?"

Martin looked at Hadvar solemnly. "Tell me, how much do you know of the Oranius name?"

Hadvar shrugged. "Not much. Luther kept mum about whatever family he had back in Cyrodiil."

"That's because there was no family. His name was made up, his nobility bought."

The Sergeant raised a brow and Martin nodded gravely, "Remember the archives that we were ordered to retrieve during the Thalmor's siege of the Imperial City? Well there was a report there on Tullius during his stay in the war academy… Anyway, one page led to another and I fell upon an investigative missive regarding Tullius' best friend and sword-partner, a boy named Cephoran Mede… only nobody called him by that name; to everyone else, he was Luther Oranius."

"Luther's real name was Cephoran? Cephoran Mede? Wait a minute… Mede…? As in—"

Martin nodded. "That's right. Mede… as in he's the Emperor's bastard half-brother. According to the report, no one except the Emperor and a few of his cronies knew about it, not even the Blades."

"This is…" Havar shook his head and leaned on a parapet, "Are you sure? And who was the mother?"

"Some chambermaid in High Rock. And I'm pretty sure it's all true. We were ordered to burn all the archive records immediately after sneaking them out of that damn siege remember? A direct order from the Emperor himself, they said."

"So you're saying the Captain should have been the one sitting on the throne?"

"No. Emperor Titus was born first and had the right of it. But the point is that Luther had royal blood and I'm guessing our Wolf Queen sniffed it out. That… is my theory."

At the far horizon, where blackness pervaded, a thin line of orange-red light began creeping up from the east. A new day was arriving, but Hadvar was stuck looking at the past. The fiery dawn reminded him of the Aldmeri battle line slowly advancing towards them during the battle to retake the Imperial City.

Luther was a behemoth back then, his shouted commands like the roars of a great beast, urging the Forlorn on and on. Hadvar was but an under-aged private at the time. The Company owed much to Luther and, at least in Hadvar's opinion, finding his killer was the least they could do. But what in Oblivion could they do against a mad lich queen?

And if Martin was wrong, and Dancer and the others were right, what could they do against Tullius?

Hadvar shook his head. He almost wished it were merely robbers that got the better of the Captain. Warm commoner blood they could spill.

For now, they should concentrate on what they could swallow.

The Sergeant looked at Martin who was waiting patiently for his superior to gather his thoughts. "The other killings, the ones that happened before we entered Solitude, what do you know about them?"

The Corporal scratched his nose and thought for a moment. "Seven officers in all: two Captains, a Legate, and the rest were file leaders. Most of them were Battle-Born. The non-military ones included a merchant with the East Empire Company and several Thanes who were in the Empire's pocket."

"Our killer never tried getting at Tullius or Elisif?"

"The Jarl? No. She's well liked, even by her ghostly predecessors it seems. As for Tullius… there have been plenty of attempts against him, but he's got six cohorts acting as determined babysitters; he knows how to lead and the soldiers aren't about to let him croak before Ulfric's dead and all the fighting's over and done with."

"Everyone seems to think that killing Ulfric would suddenly solve all of Tamriel's problems."

"Maybe not all, but definitely half of them." Martin stretched and craned his neck. He's said his fill. Now it was up to Hadvar to do what's best for the Forlon. _Whatever the hell that was_.

He looked searchingly at the Sergeant for a moment, before speaking up. "So… what's your take on all this, Sergeant?"

Hadvar only grunted before taking one last look at the now rising sun. He began walking back towards the barracks with the Corporal in tow. Ulfric was being moved from Dour to the Palace in anticipation for the festival when he will finally be executed.

It won't be long before the Company officers will be summoned for briefing upon the Stormcloak's arrival. And then Hadvar will see whether this new Captain of theirs was worth protecting… or better off to be left at the hostile city's mercy.

Sergeant Hadvar of the Forlon Hope sighed. He missed the olden days when he could just leave all the thinking to Luther. So easy it was to just follow the old man's orders and not take responsibility for any mistakes that stemmed from them.

"Except he's dead," he said loudly. "Luther's dead," he declared with some small measure of defiance at the Blue Palace's cold and uncaring walls.

"Yes, Sergeant," Martin replied uncertainly behind him.

"And a man's death… is more the survivors' affair than his own."

"Yes… Sergeant."

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

.

.

They say the legend of Potema began with a vow of love. They say that the 'great evil that came to be known as the Wolf Queen' was made manifest long before she was even born to that time's heir presumptive, Pelagius and his newlywed wife, Quintilla.

According to Imperial historians, the two were brought together by a demonic wolf that, at the time, was terrorizing the fair maiden's lands. And it was Pelagius' martial prowess, and Quintilla's mystic powers, that brought the great beast down.

Instead of laying the deranged wolf's soul to rest however, Quintilla chained it into a gem as black as night. It was this gem that was placed on a magnificent silver-wrought ring, and it was this ring that Pelagius proposed with.

They had four children in all. Three of them would go on to be Emperors: Antiochus, Cephorus, and Magnus, in that order. The fourth, Potema, never got to sit on the throne, though she contested her brothers for it all through their lives. Though it was widely believed that Quintilla's ring was handed out to Potema, the latter only truly became known as the Wolf Queen due to her part in the War of the Red Diamond—the succession war between Potema's son and Antiochus' daughter. It was at the end of the war that Cephorus and Magnus would end the long-standing feud, levelling the whole of the city of Solitude with their sister still in it.

"We are not only our sister's keeper; but in countless ways large and small, we are also our sister's maker," Marcus had intoned before letting loose his siege engines. But was it really that easy to kill the spirit of a great demon wolf?

The killer's eyes flashed red, a dark foreboding hue that mimicked the color of thick coagulated blood. Though she did not have the guise of a lycanthrope, her limbs were healthy and supple, and her senses were sharpened to an almost feral state. She could jump the ten foot barrier no problem.

She placed one foot against the wall of the estate before nimbly darting upwards in a cat-like motion. Once on top, she let the magic swirl all around her, making her invisible to all but the most trained wizard's eye. She made sure however that her eyes were still visible and still very red.

There was a clearing from the outer wall to the manor itself. What may have been a garden during spring was now nothing more than a flat empty space coated knee-deep with snow. She thought to walk along the wall to find a less exposed route but quickly reconsidered when she heard the two lone guards chatting across the clearing.

It was late in the night; it was just after that time when they would have roused from their sleep to replace the two prior guards in their rotation. They were cold and still sleepy and their spears were already carelessly propped against the manor's walls. Surprisingly, they were arguing about her, with one claiming that she appears as a great wolf right before ripping all her victims to shreds. The other then claimed that she shows up looking exactly like a queen, crown and all, and that she kills her victims with a fiery bolt that erupts from her elegant fingers.

She frowned, debating whether she should be amused or not by what they were saying, especially with what she was about to do to them. Bending down to her knees, she reached behind her to pull out her twin dagger 'fangs', one on each hand.

They were not fangs, and not even daggers in truth. They were sharp without a doubt, and made by the purest Skyforge steel. Each blade was shaped like a crescent, crafted in such a way that were they placed side by side, and curved handle to curved handle, they would form a perfect, bladed circle. They were uncommon weapons to be sure, likely the only ones of their kind in the whole of Tamriel.

The old Empire's Blades agents might recognize them; but they're all dead now, leaving just her, and perhaps a few historians, to know where the weapons' design came from and how to use them. The exotic weapons were called Chakrani blades, so named by their creators, the Monkey People of the continent of Akavir far to the east. They were close to impossible for a man to wield; but to a small few, the impossible is made possible by simply throwing away rationality…

But she was not mad. No, it was only for the outside world to think that she was. And even then, it was merely a part that she was playing, a necessary illusion so that she could get from one point to another without being too impeded. She shook her head, always bemused about the strange thoughts that invade her mind every time she was about to kill someone.

She concentrated once more on the two guards. She gauged the distance of everything around the two: from her position on the wall to the spears leaning close to them. Satisfied, she then somersaulted up into the air before landing on the snow, exactly on the spot she had intended to land on.

The latter two froze in place, transfixed as they were on the footfalls suddenly forming up on the snow and heading towards them. Their surprise quickly turned into fear as they saw the two red eyes that glowed and trailed a wisp of misty red.

The Chakrani blades went flying through the air, with one arcing to the left and the other to the right. And when the guards turned around to grab at their spears, the twirling blades sliced through that small part of their neck which was neither protected by their chestplate nor their helmet. Before their headless bodies could topple to the ground, the Chakrani blades had completed their flight and were returned to their owner.

The intruder stared at her blades for a moment, always amazed at how spotless they remained every time even after being used in battle. She then looked back at the guards and shuddered. Blood was flowing freely and the white lovely snow was no longer white. How many people had she killed in these past months? It was only two years ago that—

She shook her head. That was a life long dead. Now, she was the Wolf Queen. Although technically the Wolf Queen was also dead. Who was she now really? And what was she becoming? Would all this, all the terrible things she'd been doing, bring back the quiet life she had two years ago?

She tore her gaze away from the dead bodies and surveyed the inner courtyard. There were two main buildings. The first one was an expansive manor which was usually the first thing guests saw when they arrived. The second building was at the far back, a demure-looking house that appeared to serve only as housing for the manor's servants.

But she knew better.

She glanced one more time at the main building. It was the manor which served as the Thalmor Embassy. She wondered at how many Justicars and conniving traitors she could take out if she went in now. But that was not why she was here. Granted that it took much planning just to finally get this small window of opportunity, a rare moment when the Embassy's defenses would be down. She knew—thanks to all the countless letters and correspondences she had pilfered over the past week— that most of the Thalmor wizards had been sent away on various missions, leaving the Embassy without its formidable magical wards.

That was the plan at first: Wait for them to lower their guard, then take out as much of them as she could. But things change. And now she was here for another reason. She whirled around and headed for the small building.

It was a two-storied house, though she knew it also had a basement that was large enough to be considered a dungeon. And considering the cages and torture racks down there, it certainly was used like one.

Wooden panels had been drawn down over the windows but she could see light flittering through the seams. She looked up to the roof and studied the smoke coming out of the chimney. Thick and heavy. The fireplace had dwindled down to embers and no one had bothered to stoke it.

She moved to the front door and stood as close as possible. Her demonic eyes faded for a moment, to be replaced by bright but normal-looking green ones. Her vision also disappeared for a brief instant before slowly focusing back. And from behind the door, she saw the life energies of those within.

Every time their life sparks pulsated, a wave of energy would crash into her, sensitive to the living as she had momentarily altered herself to be. Several people slept on the second floor and a lone guard roamed the first. Down at the basement, there were more people, though some had much weaker pulsations than the others.

She patiently waited for the guard to move on to the second floor before placing a hand over the keyhole. The door rattled slightly for a moment as the tumbles fell into place seemingly on their own. When the last one finally made an audible click, she gently pushed the door open and slid inside.

The interior looked normal enough with a hearth on one wall and several doorways branching into a kitchen, an office, and several storage rooms. Across the hearth was a staircase that led both to the second floor and to the basement.

She headed for the stairs immediately, taking care not to bump into any of the furniture that dotted the room. When she reached the staircase, she looked up to the next floor and listened attentively. A faint snoring emanated from above. She listened for a while longer until she could finally hear the faint shuffling of the guard's boots. The guard had reached the end of his patrol and was now heading back.

Plenty of time, but she might have to deal with the guard on her way back. She slipped quietly down the stairs and past the basement doors. Almost immediately upon entering, she was struck by the acrid smell of death, decay, and defecation.

She was on a porch with a view that opened up to the rest of the basement. To one side was a staircase that led down to ground level. The basement was a spacious, rectangular room with rows of cages lining up its two lengthier walls. Some were empty; the others were occupied by unmoving masses that may once have been people.

She ignored the sight and smell as she checked each cell one by one. At the far end, she found who she was looking for. Her quarry seemed to still live, if barely. In between her and the cell however, was a squadron of elven guards and two Justicars.

Her heart jumped when she recognized one of them. It was Elenwen, the Thalmor Ambassador to Skyrim and de facto commander of all Thalmor operatives in the north. She'd be quite a prize indeed. But the intruder knew the ambassador would be leaving this place unharmed and unaware.

As far as the outside world was concerned, both the Thalmor and the spirit of the Wolf Queen wanted the same thing: the eventual destruction of the Empire. It wouldn't do to be tipping off the Imperials just yet. Suspicions were already abound in Dour and in the Palace. She needed to lay low for now, at least until the festival.

She jumped down from the porch and climbed atop one cage. She then leaped stealthily on top of another until she was close enough to hear the Justicars' conversation. The elves had stopped in front of one cell, the very same one that she had been planning to break into.

The cell had one inhabitant: A Nord slumped on one corner and carrying a bevy of whip marks all around his face and body. The Nord looked half-dead but he nonetheless sneered at Elenwen as she peered through the cage bars to examine him.

"Here to enjoy the sights of your Zoo, Ambassador?" the Nord rasped.

Elenwen ignored him as she looked back at the other Justicar. "This is the man?"

"Yes, First Emissary. His name is Roggvir, former guard captain of the Palace. We managed to snatch him away before the Jarl could order his execution."

"And Elisif did not suspect?"

"No, madame. His 'suicide' was well staged. We also left a note in his handwriting professing his regret for his part in High King Torygg's death. The city guards believed it and the matter has long been laid to rest."

"Very good. And what have you learned from him?"

The other Justicar shook his head. "Close to nothing. Just that there definitely is a hidden entrance into the Blue Palace, one that can get us past the Palace's magical wards. It exists but we still don't know where it lies. The Nord has proven to be… resilient."

"Resilient but not impervious," Elenwen abruptly turned around and started heading for the stairs. All but one of the guards followed her. "You are not trying hard enough, Rulindil. Break every bone in his body if you must. I _will_ know where that entrance is. Do you hear me, Third Emissary?"

"Of course, madame. He will talk… or he will die."

The Ambassador did not reply as she exited with her entourage in tow. Justicar Rulindil waited several seconds before spinning around and gesturing angrily at the remaining guard.

"Take him out of his cell," he snapped.

"To the racks once more, sir?"

"No. Just bring him here. To this chair." Rulindil moved to a corner where a simple chair stood. After a few grunts, the guard eventually managed to carry the Nord to the spot. It took him a while longer to steady Roggvir so that the latter wouldn't suddenly fall from the chair. Once done, Rulindil waved the guard back and stood in front of the prisoner.

"You have a tough hide, but no one lasts forever under my watch."

The prisoner sat up painfully. "Toughness is not about being a bully; It's about having backbone, elf."

"Wise words. Perhaps I have been going through all this the wrong way. Maybe it is your mind I need to break and not your body."

Roggvir grinned, revealing a few broken teeth and a bloody mouth. "Well what's stopping you?"

Rulindil frowned in return before taking a step back and folding his arms.

"Your family—"

"It's been well over a year," Roggvir interrupted, "For you to be threatening my family only now means you've no idea where they are and I doubt you'll ever do. Knowing my wife, I've as much a chance of finding them as you do, even if I do manage to get out of here. My wife's not stupid; she'd have taken the kids and left Solitude the moment she heard about my arrest for allowing Ulfric to leave the Palace."

"Clever... what you say is true. I suppose it would be bittersweet for you to hear that your family was last seen crossing the border into Hammerfell where we have no jurisdiction."

Roggvir closed his eyes and leaned back against the chair. "Bittersweet indeed."

"I could let you free, you know, to rejoin them. And I wholly agree with you in the matter of your involvement with the High King's murder. I was one of the few present in court when the Jarl of Windhelm issued his challenge. I am well versed on the proceedings of Nordic tradition; Ulfric had every right to walk free and unchallenged out of the Palace. I think your being arrested was a questionable decision made by a bereaved wife."

Roggvir chuckled. "If you hadn't spent the past two years beating the hell out of me, I'd have almost believed your false pity. Keep on trying your mind tricks, elf. They will get you nowhere. Neither you, Elisif, nor even my wife can make me regret letting Ulfric go. I knew what I was doing when I ordered the guards to stand down. I knew that it would plunge Skyrim into war. And I knew that you Thalmor dogs would be swooping in, covertly nurturing the conflict and laying out the groundwork for an eventual invasion of the province."

"All this you knew and you still—"

"Every person of virtue, whether Man or Mer, makes his country's honor his very own; he values it, deeming it as sacred and beyond suspicion. He is willing to risk his life in its defense, for he receives just as much protection from it as he gives."

"Those are words of the Salache …"

"Indeed, elf. Your own people's words. It is your ancestors that have taught me what it truly means to protect one's country."

The Justicar shook his head. "Now I'm beginning to think that perhaps there is some hope for your race after all."

"I'm beginning to think the same about yours." Roggvir smiled. "But profound as this brief softening of our relationship may have been, I still cannot tell you what I do not know… or rather, I cannot tell you where to find something that does not exist."

"Oh, come now. I have read all the security reports you've submitted to Torygg's steward; I know the hidden passage exists. Why do you insist in giving up so much of your well-being to protect those who condemned you for your actions in the first place?"

"Like you said, my arrest was simply a snap order made by a bereaved wife; Jarl Elisif really did love her husband after all. And why are you so obsessed about this secret entrance anyway? You're free to go in and out of the Palace whenever you want. In fact, you could just as easily spread poison all over the kitchen's larder and thus kill half the Palace's denizens with none the wiser."

Rulindil chuckled. "The Jarl's magicians would immediately detect the slightest of poisons the moment it comes within their range. What they cannot detect however, is cold steel and a murderous intent. Besides, why would we kill our most dear allies? The Thalmor would prefer that Elisif and Tullius stay in power instead of the Stormcloaks or any Talos worshipper."

"But they won't be your allies forever."

"Indeed," the Justicar smiled, "We are like squirrels gathering food for the coming winter. We plan ahead, Nord. This is one of many things that set our people apart. The time will come when we will be banished here, and when we return with an army in tow, we will take this city by the barest of effort."

"That is most disconcerting," Roggvir nodded ponderously, "Well… good luck with that."

"I've already made you a most generous offer. Tell me where the entrance to this passage lies and I _will_ set you free. I will arrange a carriage to take you to Hammerfell along with all the information I've gathered about the whereabouts of your family."

"My family…" Roggvir closed his eyes again, "I doubt they'll be as welcoming as you think if I go to them."

"Then start anew. I can give you gold, Nord. Enough gold to set you up for life. You can retire at some quiet coast, free of the troubles of this so-called civilized life. There is much I can grant, my friend. Perhaps it is time that you start thinking more about yourself instead of others."

The former Guard Captain of the Blue Palace did not reply. His eyes remained closed, his scarred hands resting on his lap. The silence stretched on. The guard at the back shifted around on his feet impatiently.

When the Justicar was about to break the silence, Roggvir suddenly burst out laughing. Pain shot through the latter's sides yet he continued giggling and slapping one hand on his lap.

"I don't recall having said anything amusing," Rulindil said coldly.

"Later tonight…" Roggvir calmed down and wiped a tear from his eye, "Later tonight, when you go back to your quarters, you can reflect on the things you've said and done today—something that I know you do every night, predictable as you are. And you can think back to everything you've said to me ever since the moment when I first stepped into this gods-forsaken dungeon. You will reflect, and you will realize, that you lost this mind game long before you were even aware that we were playing it."

"If you're trying to—"

"You fool. Do you really think that I'd believe you'd set me free? For a year now, you've been blabbering your mouth off about everything that's been happening in the outside world. Think back, elf. All the questions we've asked of each other… how forthcoming you've been with your answers… and now here we are, with you still asking the same single question and not having an answer for it, and with me now knowing of almost every Thalmor operation that's been going on in the province thanks to your endless chattering. You were forthcoming with what you knew because you never had any intention of setting me free in the first place."

Roggvir glanced nastily at the guard whilst continuing to address Rulindil. "And now you've placed yourself in a dangerous position. I wonder how the Ambassador will feel when she learns that not only have you _not_ gained any ground in your task but you've also made me quite possibly the most dangerous threat to the Thalmor in Skyrim."

Rulindil stepped back, as if hit by a bolt of lightning. He looked wildly at the guard who squirmed in response. They both knew the guard would have to report to Elenwen everything that had been said here. The prisoner was right; the Justicar lost this game, and he'll likely lose much more than that when the First Emissary hears Roggvir's words, and the truth of them, via the guard.

The Justicar had indeed been confident. Numerous times he had easily replied to Roggvir's seemingly innocuous questions. Perhaps it was because of his high elven background, but he never could resist an opportunity to brag about the superiority and cleverness of his race to someone who could do naught but be in awe.

With rage building up inside of him, he sputtered and turned red. When Roggvir only grinned in response, the Justicar lost it and lunged forward, grabbing the Nord by the neck. He squeezed hard before screaming, "Tell me where the entrance is! Tell me or die!"

The Nord began laughing and sputtering at the same time with his hands firm and unmoving on his lap. "That's— That's right, elf…!" he choked, "Kill me…! Give me the end that I've long hoped for! Sovngarde… beckons…!"

At that point, the Justicar began shouting at him in the elven tongue, fully unaware that he was doing so. The Nord's vision blurred before beginning to fade away. In front of him, the guard was trying to pry loose the Justicar's vice-like grip. The guard was shouting at his superior to cease and desist, pointing out that Elenwen would not wish for the prisoner to be killed before learning where the secret passage was located. After hearing the Ambassador's name however, Rulindil tightened his grip even harder; his fear of what the Ambassador would do to him had seemingly won over his rationality.

Roggvir felt a sense of righteousness, glad to have finally shattered the Justicar's mask of arrogance. The last thing he remembered seeing before his world turned black was a pair of dark red eyes staring at him from a shadowy corner of the ceiling.


	3. Masters of Solitude

**ACT I: SOLITUDE**

**1.01 Masters of Solitude**

It was an exaggeration, likely started by Stormcloak propagandists, that Torygg was torn to pieces by the power of Ulfric's Voice. In truth, and even Ulfric said so numerous times, the Jarl of Windhelm only shouted the High King of Skyrim down to the ground before ending the duel with a strike of his sword.

Nonetheless, that one strike led to the churning of a series of tumultuous events that became impossible to reverse. And all throughout Skyrim, the fields of snow ran red.

It could be blamed on the Nordic passion for bloodlust but many contend that the Civil War was unnecessary; Torygg's death, a waste. The High King's dislike for the Imperials had matched that of Ulfric's and, had the latter only asked, Torygg would likely have seceded from the Empire. High King Torygg respected Ulfric, downright admired him even.

But regret does not bring the dead back to life. And the people of the north now had to look onward, to the future. With Ulfric's subsequent defeat and capture, the Civil War was just about ended. And Skyrim needed a new leader.

Elisif the Fair came out of her revelry as someone coughed softly behind her. She stepped away from the window looking out to the Blue Palace's gardens. There were three people who had entered the room, not counting her handmaiden, Fralia, who led the way.

The first of the three was Thane Bryling, her friend and ally in court. The Thane smiled warmly when the Jarl of Solitude looked her way. Elisif beamed back in response, noting how her old friend's smile took years away from her aged face.

When Torygg died, he left behind no heirs and, had some had their way, a new High King would have been appointed via election by the Jarls. None had deigned to acknowledge Elisif's not-so-inconsiderable claim to the throne, though many secretly believed that the crown was hers by right. Even the people would agree; she was well loved by the masses. She was, after all, Torygg's loving wife. And had it not been for Bryling's staunch support, she may not even have attained her rightful position as Jarl of Solitude, the Capital City of Skyrim and the bastion of Imperial power in the north.

The Jarldom of the Hold of Haafingar, where Solitude is located, belonged to Torygg; as such, it should have only made sense for it to have been transferred to Elisif after the High King's untimely demise. And though it had been a fair while since Torygg's death, the dispute for the throne of _all_ of Skyrim was still ongoing. It was momentarily set aside due to the civil war; but now that Ulfric had been captured…

Elisif looked at the second person to have entered, and she nodded in greeting, if in a somewhat cold manner. She did not bother to see if General Tullius replied in kind as her gaze moved on to the third visitor: a young Imperial soldier who she did not recognize. But before she could inquire his name, General Tullius cleared his throat.

"Greetings, my lady," the General began, "The first Cohort has safely transferred their prize from Castle Dour to the Blue Palace's dungeons. With your permission, I've billeted one Company inside the Palace to help watch over Ulfric for the rest of his... stay. They have been here for a week already actually; they've been making inspections on the Palace's security prior to the Stormcloak's transfer."

Elisif nodded. "You still don't approve of my request? Formidable as Dour may be, the Palace is still a better choice for his imprisonment at least until the festival."

Tullius sighed. "My lady, he is a dangerous man. For every moment that he lives and breathes, rebellion will remain a constant threat to the north—"

"General. For as long as you keep bending over to the Thalmor, rebellion will always be a constant threat to the north."

Tullius pursed his lips, the soldier beside him widened his eyes, Bryling suppressed a grin, and Fralia kept her head bowed behind them.

Elisif maintained her gaze on the General, daring the old Imperial to blurt out a retort. But the latter did not take the bait. Tullius simply bowed and said, "That may be so, my lady. But we must first deal with the problems that need more immediate attending to."

He looked back at Elisif and calmly matched her steady gaze. _Insult me as much as you want_, said his eyes, _but you need me as much as I need you_.

And that pretty much summed up their relationship. Elisif needed the General's military prowess to supress the rebellion. Even though four of the six Imperial cohorts currently in Skyrim were comprised almost solely of Nords, they were loyal to Tullius, very much preferring his brilliant leadership over hers, untested as she was in the art of war.

The General on the other hand, knew well enough not to have gone gallivanting into Skyrim like an occupying force. As far as the people of the north were concerned, he was here to protect them from their king's murderer and his vagabond army. Without the people's support he'd have had a hard time keeping order. And that was where Elisif came into his calculations.

The people loved her, and not just in Solitude; she was well admired by the common rabble in all of Skyrim. Not only that, her title alone held sway over the people of high standing. She had influence over the Nordic people on both ends of the social order and that was what made her a necessary, though reluctant, ally. There are many nuances to waging a war, and most battles are not fought in the battlefield. Strange as it sounded, Elisif was the General's best soldier.

Eventually, Tullius looked away. He cleared his throat and indicated at the Imperial officer. "This is the Company's new Captain, Jon Battle-Born. He'll be reporting directly to you and your steward for the duration of the festival."

The young officer bowed at Elisif who looked at him in mild surprise. "A Battle-Born?" remarked the Jarl, "You carry quite a name, Captain. The Battle-Born are both cursed upon and revered in Solitude for their unwavering support of the Empire. I hope you can deal with the pressure; a different sort of battle is waged in Solitude's court, and it is a battle you'll be thrust into eventually if you intend to stay in the Palace."

Jon bowed again and said, "I think I'll be busy enough keeping an eye on the prisoner. I won't allow myself to be distracted from my duties, my lady."

Bryling snorted. "I don't think you fully understand what it means to be a Battle-Born. Nowadays, by your name alone, half of Skyrim would follow you into war while the other half would wish you dead. Especially with what your family did to House Gray-Mane…" The old Thane let her voice trail away but her eyes remained on Jon.

The latter flinched but did not look away. "It was a clean feud... as clean as feuds could be anyway. They sided with Ulfric and we sided with the Empire. We supported Solitude, my lady," he looked purposefully at Elisif, "We supported you. And we won the fight; we routed House Gray-Mane's forces in the siege of Whiterun."

"Oh no one doubts your honor for fighting a fight. The two strongest Houses in Skyrim coming to a head… it was inevitable that one would fall. Fortunate for all of us that it was you Battle-Born that remained standing. But it's not your victory that stains your name. It's what happened afterwards."

This time Jon looked down. He knew that Tullius was staring at him with eyes demanding that he not say another word. But he didn't need to say anything. The guilt was obvious in his face and even Bryling felt a pang of regret for bringing the sore point up.

The city of Whiterun was the perennial stronghold of House Gray-Mane. And it was forces aligned with House Battle-Born that took it by storm. The Gray-Mane family was arguably the strongest Stormcloak supporter in the north, and the surprise siege of their city stronghold was what had caused Ulfric to come out of his bastion at the east.

Except Ulfric never arrived to the besieged city's aide. He was ambushed and captured by Luther Oranius who had accurately anticipated the Stormcloak's move to relieve the siege.

The siege itself was a glorious fight. Olfrid Battle-Born, the patron of the family, was lauded for his victory by Nords on both sides of the war. But what no one had anticipated was the massacre that quickly followed their victory. In the following week, the Gray-Mane would lose more men and women than from the siege itself.

The Captain sighed. His family name, however tainted, he still felt obligated to defend. He regarded Bryling and spoke steadily, "I am not a politician; neither am I a diplomat. Tell me; what could my father have done? If he stood in opposition then we'd have been no different from the Stormcloaks. We'd be waging a war doomed to fail."

"I was there at Whiterun's plaza when it first started, and I can tell you without a doubt that every single Battle-Born in attendance that day felt the pain of guilt and remorse stabbing their heart. I was there."

He exhaled and looked away. Everyone in the room fell silent, each lost in thoughts of past loves, lives shattered, and deaths unanswered. Surpisingly, it was Elisif who broke their revelry as she regarded the Captain with a gaze that held new-found respect.

"Remorse is the root of virtue," she began, "with it come resolution and eventually, absolution. For a soldier, you are not what I expected, Captain… perhaps it would be wise to not make enemies of each other for that is what our true foes intend of us."

"Wise words, my lady," Tullius spoke up and both officers bowed deferentially at the Jarl.

The latter simply nodded and said, "Yes well, thank you for today's report, General. As for you, Captain, I'm sure you're eager to return to your men."

Jon smiled briefly. "In truth, I have yet to see them and I dread our first meeting. They are a seasoned bunch and I don't know how they'll react to having someone as green as I am as their commander, never mind my participation in Whiterun's siege."

"Oh? You are newly promoted then?" It was Bryling who spoke up. Her eyes narrowed as she stepped forward to examine the young Captain. "Which Company?"

"2nd Skirmisher, Emperor's 3rd Legion."

Bryling hissed. "The Forlorn Hope. Luther's old Company." The old woman whirled around and rounded on Tullius. "So eager were you to replace Luther with one of your own cronies, eh? A Battle-Born, no less. No disrespect meant to you, lad—" and she nodded at Jon, "—but your grandpa Olfrid Battle-Born and Tullius here are so close to each other's backsides you'd think they're sleeping together! Luther's already dead and you're still spitting on his grave—"

Tullius turned red. "Enough—"

"Oh, but it's never enough is it?" Bryling persisted, "I won't outright accuse you of murdering Luther but I can tell you for sure that everyone in the whole damn army is thinking it. And how long do you think you'll last once the war is over, Tullius? Your very own soldiers can just as easily turn on you as you've done to Luther."

The General breathed in deep before looking back at the Thane. "Luther got himself killed by his own vice."

Bryling sneered. "Tell that to his men who you so conveniently ordered to stand watch over Ulfric. They stayed their hand and obeyed your order to let Ulfric live, and now see where they find themselves. I suspect it can only be pure torture for them to be guarding the one and only Stormcloak of all people. It just wasn't enough that Oranius is dead; you just had to take it out on his friends too."

Tullius' voice was barely controlled rage. "I gave the 2nd the job because they're the best veterans I have in the army. They may hate it but I _know_ that they'll obey my orders and not touch Ulfric. I cannot say the same for the rest of my soldiers."

"Hmph. How can you trust a General who does not even trust his own men?"

"When a General assumes his soldiers' trust, he becomes their property."

"And thus the great Tullius has spoken," Bryling muttered. Before the General could react, the Thane motioned at the handmaiden, Fralia. "Kindly lead the Captain and the dear General out. I'm sure they've a lot to attend to."

Fralia bowed and moved to the door, waiting expectantly for the officers to follow. Tullius nodded curtly at the Jarl before purposefully ignoring Bryling. With a whirl of his cloak, he marched out of the room followed by Jon, who was filled with various thoughts of apprehension, and the handmaiden, whose head remained bowed but whose eyes followed the Captain's every movement.

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

.

.

Whiterun Hold was a massive expanse of tundra and open grassland that catered to numerous farms and steadings. These, in turn, catered to the ever hungry stomachs of the Nordic people. Considered as the food basket of the north, the Hold provided the vast majority of the province's grain and dairy output, immediately marking it as vital territory when the war broke out.

Add to that the fact that it was situated almost dead center of Skyrim (it bordered 6 of the province's 8 Holds), one would have thought that it would have become pockmarked by scars of battle after two years of warfare. But before Ulfric's capture, the only large-scale battle that had occurred within the Hold was the siege of Whiterun, the Hold's main city once dominated by House Gray-Mane.

Of all the races in Tamriel, the Nords knew the pain of hunger the most. It came with living in a harsh winter land. Despite their incessant need for warmongering, they were not about to let their own people starve no matter their political affiliations. As such, the war for control over the farms was not a war of swords and shields; it was instead a war of words and allegiances.

Each farm was controlled by a clan. So it was all simple really: Those who supported the Empire sold food to the Imperials, and those who supported the Stormcloaks, like the Gray-Manes did, sold their harvest to the predominantly Stormcloak east.

But most of the clans remained neutral at the start of the war. Perhaps because of the Hold's tenuous position, or for fear of loss of profit, most farm owners continued to sell to both warring proponents all the while trying to resist the mounting pressure from their clients to pick a side.

Eventually, the majority of the clans would be swayed by the powerful Gray-Manes whose shadow they had been safely living under. But with the city of Whiterun's fall, their loyalty came into doubt. And with Ulfric's ensuing capture, they quickly and proudly displayed Imperial banners all around their farms for passersby to see.

It was one such banner that the bard had been looking at. He was deeply mesmerized, as he so easily was in Thorald's opinion. The former was transfixed at the banner's numerous meanings and unsaid declarations.

"Fear is a powerful weapon," the bard spoke up, "And with cowardice so often comes conformity."

Thorald gave him a sidelong glance. "If you break into another song, I will bash your empty head in good and proper." The Nordic warrior then turned to face the third of their company. The latter was also transfixed at something in the distance; although, instead of looking at the Hold's farmland which had opened up in front of them, the Daedra was staring up to their right, where the mountain ranges thrust upwards to meet with the misty sky.

"The Throat of the World," Vaermina half whispered with eyes in a glaze. "All paths you follow will lead you to the same place, Nord. And that place will be there, amongst the clouds."

"Right now, I prefer to be surrounded by clouds than present company," Thorald muttered back as he glared at his two companions who were lost in their own worlds, "Now if you two are done sight-seeing, it's time to move on. The city gates will be closing soon."

"Ah, but all gates are open to one such as I," said the bard, "My talents can open many doors to us, you see. With but a strum of my harp I can gain us access to any place where people long to be freed from the boredom and monotony of their otherwise cheerless lives. Music is the magic that we bards cast."

Thorald glared at him. The bard, who called himself Sven, was carrying their entire load: two full packs of food and various basic necessities. He also had a simplistic harp carefully wrapped and hanging around his shoulders.

"Where did you acquire all those anyway?" Thorald asked Vaermina while gesturing at the packs.

The latter only shrugged. "Sven's mother. She was most generous."

Thorald frowned for a moment before realizing what she meant. "By the gods. You have no shame do you? You not only ensorcelled this sorry sod to carry your baggage but you also stole from his mother?"

"And for whose sake do you think I did all that for? You're the one in need of food, not I. As for dear Sven here…" Vaermina smiled sweetly at the bard, "He was gracious enough to lend me a hand in carrying your unconscious and brutish form out of town before more of the Thalmor arrived."

"And I don't suppose your witch magic had anything to do with his generosity?"

"I always try to help people in need," Sven spoke up, "We of Riverwood are a kind people, as befitting our protector Mara who watches over our village. When I saw the poor lady and yourself in dire need, I thought it only proper to offer my helping hand."

Vaermina smiled again. "And for that, we are grateful. Mara will surely be smiling at your kindness."

The Gray-Mane shook his head. "And tell me, Bard, how does the Goddess of Love protect your village?"

"Well… she has a centuries-old statue that stands close to our village. It really is magical, you see. It has never been sullied or scratched—"

"Truly?" Thorald began, "I seem to recall someone saying that they blew the statue to—"

He was quickly cut off by Vaermina who laid a hand on Sven's shoulder. "Come, friend bard, we waste time and the city beckons to us. Tell me, have you ever been to Whiterun?"

"Of course, many times! I would be more than happy to show you around. Why, I know the city just as well as I know my own village. I've even performed a few times at Dragonsreach, I'll have you know. My music is very much appreciated in all of the Hold… beyond even!"

"Really!" Vaermina replied in exaggerated interest. She gave a sidelong glance at Thorald. "Please do tell more." She coiled her arm around Sven's as they started walking onwards.

The bard began prattling on about nobles and ladies that he had supposedly waited on during the length of his apparently illustrious career as a bard. They ignored their companion who remained unmoving, watching them walk away.

He was tempted to bolt and just run towards the other direction. But he doubted if he could shake off a Daedric Prince as easily as that. Besides, he had to find Olfina, his sister, and Whiterun was the first step in deducing her whereabouts.

Before long, and after a sigh and a shake of his head, Thorald Gray-Mane began following the entwined couple up ahead. Just a few more yards and he'll be standing once more in front of the gates of Whiterun.

_Looks like I'm going back home, brother_.

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

.

.

The Palace garden was now a den of shadows when Elisif had her second major visit of the day. It was her handmaiden, Fralia, who led the way once more. And behind her were two robed women, an elf and a Breton.

Elisif nodded at Sybille Stentor, her court wizard whose magical prowess was believed to be rivalled only by Savos Aren, the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold far to the east. The Jarl wasn't sure of how to describe her relationship with the court wizard. The latter held no political preference and mostly stayed out of the 'war of succession' pervading Skyrim. One thing that Elisif can be sure of however was Sybille's sole focus and unwavering determination in keeping the Hold of Haafingar free and safe from demonic trickery.

And the wizard was part of the reason why the Blue Palace was widely considered as the safest and most protected fortress in all of Skyrim. Aside from Castle Dour of course, but Elisif had no control over that place.

Sybille Stentor was responsible in maintaining and improving upon the intricate magical wards that dotted the Palace. The wards themselves had existed for a long time, ever since the construction of the city after the old one was destroyed. And as court wizards came and went, they each added their contributions to the Palace's magical defenses until it became as it was now: an almost indefensible stronghold of divination capable of detecting the barest trace of poisons and deflecting the strongest of magical attacks. And as easily as they kept enemies out, the wards also kept enemies locked in.

_Enemies, for instance, like Ulfric Stormcloak_.

There'll be many who'll be trying to free the Stormcloak leader. But they'll never get past the Palace's wards. And on the festival, in front of the Palace where he had once dueled Torygg, he will be executed… killed in a symbolic place and at a symbolic time.

Elisif glanced at the second woman, the elf, and she inadvertently clenched her jaw. "Ambassador, to what do I owe the… pleasure?"

First Emissary Elenwen of the Thalmor bowed deeply, lingering for a second in the bent position. She then stood her full height, at least a head above everyone else in the room, before looking down regally at the Jarl.

"Greetings, Queen Elisif—"

"I am not a queen yet. And save your honeyed words for those willing to listen to them. What do you want, Ambassador?"

"Only a moment of your time, my lady, to warn you of a grave issue that seriously affects both our offices." When Elisif made no reply, Elenwen continued, "I have taken the liberty of asking your court wizard to join us as she will be integral in dealing with our problem. I am sure her—"

"Cut the crap, Elenwen. What do you want?" Sybille interrupted in a frank manner. Elisif smiled inwardly, liking her wizard more so than a moment ago.

Elenwen nodded unfazed, but she raised her head higher, making her gaze seem more condescending to his shorter audience. "_Our_ want involves the one whom your people have come to calling the Wolf Queen."

Sybille raised a brow. "I'm surprised that even one such as you has bought in to these unfounded rumors. The Wolf Queen has long been dead, Ambassador. She exists only in the gossips of superstitious guards and peasants."

"I agree with you of course, it is but a rumor. But I am certain neither of you can deny that a murderer is on the loose. And, after considering what the murderer's managed so far, you also cannot deny that this killer must hold at least some measurable skill in the magical arts."

"True indeed," Sybille replied, "But we have close to nothing that could lead us to uncovering the killer's identity. Most of the murder locations had magical traces but nothing substantial enough to form a trail we could follow."

"So you agree our killer has talent… enough perhaps even to overcome the Blue Palace's impressive wards?"

The court wizard immediately shook her head. "No matter how talented this killer is, he or she has yet to penetrate the Palace's defenses. Any unauthorized magic that intrudes within the wards' boundaries would immediately be expunged, not to mention alerting myself and my cadre of mages in the process."

"Perhaps. And what if there exists a gap in your magical barrier, a loophole wherein a person could easily slip through. Or what if the killer were to take a non-magical route to infiltrating the Palace? After all, your wards could only defend against magic but not against a crude blade."

"That is where my palace guards come in," Elisif said, "They are the best. Now why don't you tell me what the point of all this chatter is, Ambassador. I'm sure your spies have already told you all you need to know about the Palace's wards."

Elenwen nodded somberly. "Very well," she began, "I have reason to believe that there will be an attempt to free Ulfric Stormcloak from his bounds. As to when, I am not sure but it will obviously be sometime between now and the coming festival."

"There have already been many attempts—"

"I believe this one to be the most threatening. I believe it will happen while the Stormcloak is in the Palace, within the protection of your wards. And I believe that our murderer, the 'Wolf Queen', is in the middle of it all. And I also believe that she just might succeed."

The whole room fell silent. After a long while, Sybille spoke up, "You have… quite the beliefs, Elenwen."

"Indeed. And it would behoove you to take them seriously."

"And why are you suddenly so interested in this Wolf Queen?" Elisif demanded.

"My interest is purely a desire for retribution. The murderer deemed to take a visit last night… Four of my guards are dead and one of my Justicars was badly injured."

"The embassy was attacked…? That sounds quite unlike our murderer. And who could her target have been?"

"It was I, obviously. I am after all here as an ally of your Emperor. It was only a matter of time that this Imperial-hating murderer would set his or her sights on me. Fortunately, I have long been prepared for that moment and I was able to get away unscathed although I cannot say the same for my dead men."

"You saw the killer then?" Sybille asked.

"No. The attack was swift and the killer never got past our perimeter. Those who saw the killer were the same four guards who are now dead."

"But you mentioned a Justicar—"

"So I have, and you will have all the time to interrogate him once he is released from our infirmary. In fact, I will assign him to head the detail that I am sending here to help stand guard over the Stormcloak… his punishment for letting the murderer get away."

Elisif frowned at this. "Which brings us to the next most glaring question: How are you certain that the palace will be attacked and that Ulfric's release is the main goal?"

The First Emissary did not answer immediately as she looked through the window and at the now darkened sky. When her gaze returned to the other two, that mocking demeanor had once again returned. "I have my sources and at this point I am not ready to tell who they are. You have my word however—"

"You expect us to simply believe your bold suspicions without giving us evidence?" Elisif bristled, "If you want any sort of vengeance for your dead men then you will tell us—"

"My secrets…? And if I do so, would you then share yours? I would be more than forthcoming with information should you do the same. I can only wonder how many Talos worshippers you secretly hide from the Embassy. In fact, I'm sure in this palace alone…" She gave a cursory glance over her shoulder. Behind her, Fralia stiffened but her head remained bowed, her face hidden under her cowl.

"I will say this," Elenwen continued, "We are together in this matter for our goals are one and the same: the safety and security of the Palace. I will be sending Justicar Rulindil and some men to your attention very soon. I sincerely hope you will give them permission to roam your halls freely."

She turned around to leave, bumping Fralia on the shoulder as she made for the doorway. And when she was long gone, Sybille let out a weary sigh. She gave a slightly sympathetic look at Fralia before turning her attention to the Jarl.

"Quite a woman she is," the wizard muttered, "What do you think she's up to?"

"Something sinister no doubt. But there's definitely more to all this than just a simple attempt at freeing Ulfric."

"You think she knows who or what this 'Wolf Queen' really is?"

"Perhaps. But I think the little 'breach' in their perimeter last night may have been a lot more than she had let on. Whatever happened there, it must have been worthwhile enough to make the Ambassador to want to get her hands on the murderer."

"Plausible," Sybille nodded, "Whatever the case, her suspicions of a possible attack on the Palace likely has merit considering she came here to voice them out personally. I'll see to my mages and the palace guards."

"Very well. In the meantime, we need to interrogate that Justicar who survived before they have time to fabricate a story."

"Sound," Sybille nodded again, "Shall I send some of my mages?"

Elisif thought for a moment before shaking his head. She gestured at her handmaiden, "Fralia, go fetch our new resident Battle-Born. Tell him I have a job for him. If our murderer intends to infiltrate our Palace, I think it best that we get our Imperial protector involved."

The handmaiden quickly bowed and made for the door.

"And Fralia... Talos guide you."

The handmaiden hesitated briefly before bowing again and making her leave.

"I must say," Sybille said softly when Fralia left, "You play a dangerous but impressive game, Jarl Elisif."

"What do you mean?"

"You entertain the Thalmor and the Imperials both in this same room all the while surrounding yourself with Talos-worshipping servants and lackeys. You hold the grudging respect of Elenwen and Tullius and also that of the common people. A tenuous balance all of it is and yet you manage to maintain, at the very least, neutral relations with every single being in Skyrim."

"If everyone respected me I would have been queen by now. It is not a matter of getting as many people to like me as possible; it is more of getting the right people's approval. And what of you, do I have the approval of my own court wizard?"

"You and I, we remain as we always have been. I assist you in all things magical but I shy away from your political machinations. I have learned from a young age to minimize my dealings with mortals as much as possible. I have long given up trying to understand my fellow men. In truth I find it easier to deal with otherworldly beings as I now do as Solitude's head wizard."

"You would prefer the company of demons and other such creatures instead of people?"

"As I've said, people are difficult to understand and almost impossible to trust. But as for unnatural beings who roam these lands like our 'Wolf Queen'… there is always only one thing that needs to be understood about them."

"And what thing is that?"

"Why, how to kill them, of course."


	4. The Whiterun Incident

**1.02 The Whiterun Incident**

"…when we suffer, we wage war, a jostling of space where, in the end, one falls in order for the other to breathe a little better. But the irony of it is that, after all the fighting's been done, the suffering still continues and we have no one left but ourselves to blame."

Thorald nodded solemnly in agreement to the bard's words.

In front of them, looming over a starry night backdrop, stood the gates of Whiterun. Or at least what was left of it. Signs of the siege—and the ensuing enfilade—were blatantly in display everywhere, from gaps in the walls to mounds of bodies piled up by the road and awaiting burial or burning. The majority of Battle-Born forces had long vacated, their commanders preferring to billet them within the outlying farms which held water and food, the two major things which a burned out city could not provide for an army.

"There's something we need to make clear here, witch," Thorald said, "If you're going to be travelling with me then you'll have to learn to follow my orders. You're the one that needs something from me; I ask nothing of you. This is my city, my people, and my world. I'll not have a Daedra gallivanting around doing whatever she wants. You will behave and you will follow my lead, is that understood?"

"If it makes you feel any better, then yes… master," the Daedra in question smiled innocently.

Thorald glared at her but chose not to say anything else. He turned his attention back to the city gates. "They'll likely only have a couple Centuries of troops watching over whatever's left of the place," he muttered, "Not that there's much to guard. Most of population were… 'processed'. Whoever managed to escape would have fled east already to Stormcloak lands. Although with Ulfric soon to be executed, they might have to keep on running."

"Flee anymore to the east and you'll run into a mystic volcano," Vaermina said distractedly as she stared at a pack of children. They were scavenging what they could from the rubbish strewn about in the field before the city. "And there is also nothing for us here, Gray-Mane. Unless you think you'll find your sister somewhere among these piles of rotting carcasses, I suggest we turn around and force a meet with these Greybeards up in their mountain. I am sure they—"

"—you are free to go climb the 7000 steps if you want, witch. I'm staying down here until I learn of my sister's whereabouts. And by the Nine, stop calling me Gray-Mane. At least not while we're in Imperial-controlled territory."

"Your addressing me as a witch will bring us to suffer the scrutiny of the guards that you fear so much."

Thorald sighed. "Very well, but we'll draw even more stares if I call you by your name. We'll have to make up names for each other while we're here."

"An interesting game," the other replied before turning to their companion, "Dear Sven! Provide us with false names befitting our appearances if you please."

The bard's eyes lit up and he furrowed his brows in deep thought. After a moment, he nodded and said with a deep bow, "As per my rights as a master story-teller of Cyrodiil, I bequeath to you my lady, the name Alessia, as taken directly from the very same Saint Alessia who founded the First Empire."

Vaermina smiled, well pleased with his choice. She glanced at Thorald and gave him a mocking stare, daring him to say something. The warrior however did not take the bait.

"And mine?" he asked the bard.

"You of course, will be…" the bard dropped their packs and looked quickly about. He then darted rapidly off the road and towards a pile of bodies where he shooed away competing scavengers. After a verbal exchange of curses and much tugging, he managed to pull away with something clutched in his arms. He then raced back to his companions and, before the Gray-Mane could react, he draped around a coat of riveted mail and plate around the large warrior.

"You are Morihaus, consort to Saint Alessia, wielder of thu'um, chosen of Kynareth, and wearer of Kynareth's gift, the Lord's Mail!" With that said, he stepped back and gave the coat an admiring grin.

Thorald clearly did not share the bard's enthusiasm as he made to shake away the coat. He stopped when Vaermina raised a hand. "Keep it on. You'll look more the part of the travelling warrior. And besides, it suits you," the Daedra smiled.

Thorald glared at her but nonetheless slipped his arms into the coat. He then tightened the front straps and adjusted the sewed-on belt around the waist. "Huh. Perfect fit," he muttered, "Not bad quality either despite it being buried under all that blood."

"Only the best for my dear friends," Sven spoke up happily as he picked their packs back up, "Although if you don't mind my saying, I have heard many rumors about these Thalmor and their Justicars. It is said they do not easily forget a face. Few criminals have ever managed to escape them and those still at large will likely not be so for very long."

"He's right," Thorald muttered. He looked up ahead where the few guards on duty by the bailey took no notice of them. "There's bound to be a few Thalmor still in the city and they might have a Justicar by the gate checking every person that leaves and enters."

Vaermina snickered, "A minor issue easily resolved. This is where your owing me begins. Just remember to hold up your end of the bargain, Dragonborn." She then stepped to the side of the road and began examining the bodies strewn about. She stopped in front of one which was still in the early stages of decomposition thanks to the winter cold. She stared at the face of the dead body for a brief moment before heading back to stand in front of Thorald.

"What are you—"

Vaermina slowly traced a finger around the contours of Thorald's face. When she reached the point where she had started, she withdrew her hand and said softly, "For mortals, what they see right in front of them, they often perceive as the truth."

Behind her, Sven's jaw dropped open. "Amazing! Your face, it's changed! I dare say for the better! Quite an improvement if I say so, I always did think your face was a little too hairy, and don't even get me started on your nose—"

Thorald growled and pushed both of them out of the way as he moved to stand beside a pool of muddy water. He squinted his eyes as he tried to make out his new face's reflection. His shoulders trembled and it seemed as if he was about to go on a tirade. But instead, he simply let out a loud sigh in apparent surrender.

"Please tell me this is your idea of a joke, witch."

"It is Alessia to you, my dear. And you heard Sven's words: it is an improvement. Now come, Morihaus, let us enter the city."

Thorald grumbled as they started walking towards the gates. "You could at least have chosen a _human_ face. I look like a— I don't even know what I look like!"

"Like the offspring of a large Nord woman and a troll!" exclaimed Sven cheerfully.

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

.

.

The scene this time was being played out at Castle Dour. The slowly widening orange streaks in the sky set the hour. Seen partially from the crenellations and above snow-covered rooftops, half-hidden shadows were pushing wagons into the market grounds close to the castle. It was that hour when enterprising merchants began setting up their stalls to make ready for the new day.

It was the last day of sales before the grounds would be closed in preparation for the upcoming festival. An extra sense of urgency and anticipation was evident in the stall owners' movements since, this being the last market day until the festival, a higher volume of customers will be showing up. It was a potentially lucrative period and the merchants had to make it count in order to make up for the days when they'll not be allowed into the market. Even though a makeshift area of commerce would be set up outside the city gates, few were willing to risk the lack of security which that entailed. Not to mention the snow. Frostfall may be at the wane but for some unusual reason the last days of the month were often the longest and harshest.

"Thieves will be out in full force today too," Corporal Martin muttered under his scarf, "Last day of fishing before the festival. Then when that day comes, they'll be out in full force… and then some."

Both soldiers' boots made heavy clicking noises against the stone. The hallways in the fortress castle were a lot more hollow and bare than the ones in the palace. Even so, Hadvar and Martin would have preferred to be billeted here. There was a sense of ease and security knowing you're surrounded by multiple layers of six-feet thick fire-blackened stone walls and three cohorts comprising the most veteran archers, warriors, battlemages, and mercenaries of the Imperial Expedition. _But the most attracting feature of the castle?_

"It's not the palace," Hadvar grumbled.

"Sergeant?"

"Nothing. We're here." They stopped at a hall which opened up to a courtyard on one side and had massive doors on the other. The courtyard itself was mundane, acting more as a buffer between the training yards and the large doors that they now stood in front of. The more trained eye would however notice the magical dust floating heavily in the air. The dust served as a sound deadener, preventing the noise of soldiers training in the yards from reaching past the courtyard.

"The whole city could fall under siege and no one in here would even notice," Martin said.

"Doesn't stop the enemy from barging through with swords swinging."

"Who would pillage a temple? _The_ Temple, mind you."

"I could think of a few." Hadvar gently pushed against the doors which opened noiselessly and with ease. He then entered the Temple of the Divines.

Immediately upon entering, they were assailed with the strong scent of burned incense and a thousand burning candles of the most peculiar wax. _Combination of paraffin and Kagouti sperm_, Branding had once told Hadvar, _lasts about ten times longer than your regular wax_. Leave it to that old man to know about the most insignificant facts.

It took their eyes a moment to adjust to the partial light which the candles provided. Their flickering cast shadows on walls carved with various depictions of the Divines performing random miracles and acts of 'greatness'. There were carvings of Akatosh as a dragon, reading what was supposedly an Elder Scroll. On another wall appeared Stendarr the Merciful bestowing his hammer to Pelinal Whitestake, companion to Morihaus and Alessia, once slave-queen and now a saint. And the carvings went on and on towards the opposite end of the temple where stood eight statues, each more than ten feet high.

"Huh. Look over there," Martin pointed at a darkened section of the walls, "Talos fighting alongside Cuhlecain in Sancre Tor. I'm surprised that hasn't been sanded down."

Hadvar frowned, staring intently at where his Corporal indicated. After a while, he said, "I don't see anything there."

"What?"

"The wall is blank, Martin."

"But—"

They were interrupted by the faint shuffling of padded feet. From behind the statues and past the rows of pews came a hooded priest, hunched and walking with that slowness common among those significantly past their prime.

"The wall is indeed blank," the old priest said in a wizened voice as he stopped in front of the two. He stared curiously at Hadvar before settling his eyes on Martin. "It is blank… except to those trained to see through deception, magical or not."

Martin frowned. "Deception?"

The old man shrugged. "It was at the Jarl's request. Talos still lives in this temple, perhaps not worshipped so openly, but still he exists."

"But Talos' statue—"

"Alas, its decommissioning was overseen by the elven Emissary herself. But whatever else she left behind, we were able to save. And hide."

"That is quite the risk."

The old man shrugged again. "The risk lies with the Jarl. Now tell me what it is that you young fellows seek from my humble self."

"You know we came here to see you?" Martin asked, brows raised.

"It is the middle of the night. For whatever reason would anyone come to this place but to visit the Halls of the Dead and its keeper?"

Hadvar grunted. "You are Styrr then? The priest of Arkay? We're here—"

"—by order of your new Captain to investigate the four dead elves brought in yesterday. And also perhaps to ask about what I know about the Wolf Queen, yes?"

The two soldiers looked at him in surprise.

"Oh, your purpose here wasn't that hard to deduce," Styrr chuckled as he turned around and bade them to follow, "You wear the same insignia as the young Nord Captain who was at the embassy when I came to fetch the dead bodies. And, after having inspected all four victims, it was not hard to come to the conclusion that they were killed by our city's current most famous murderer."

"So you agree the Wolf Queen's come back from the dead then?"

"I didn't say that, young Corporal." They went past the statues and through a thin curtain which hid a stone stairway leading down to the Halls of the Dead. "I simply said," Styrr continued with labored breath as they began descending, "that you would be asking about the Wolf Queen. It is not for me to say whether the murderer is indeed her in any shape or form. That is your and your Captain's job, if I am not mistaken."

"Fair enough," said Martin, "the four bodies then. Anything you can tell about their deaths?"

"Nothing you probably haven't already heard before. Dispatched in the same swift efficiency as all the other ones. Curved blade, unimaginable sharpness. Cuts through bone, cartilage, even Orsinium metal plates."

The priest led them through catacombs and into a spacious, well-lit one. Various medical and alchemical equipment were on display everywhere. In the middle was a large stone table where a headless body was lying down stark naked.

"Never knew what hit him, this one. The blade just swept through, bone and all, from one side and then out of the next." Styrr was now standing by the head of the table, looking down at the dead body. "No magical traces except on one of them."

"And what did you learn from it?"

"The magic? I would call it unusual to say the least. It had a certain… 'wildness' to it. Almost feral. Not something a common magicker would wield, I would say."

"How 'uncommon' do you have to be to wield it then?" Hadvar asked.

Styrr stopped poking at the neck wound and stared up in contemplation. He then sighed and said, "God-touched. That or our murderer is a god herself."

Hadvar looked at his Corporal. The latter stared back with 'I was right' written all over his face.

"Still doesn't mean she's the Wolf Queen," said Hadvar.

"No, but whoever our killer is, she certainly has enough powers to make you wonder."

"I'll leave all the wondering to you," Hadvar replied before turning his attention to the priest, "There was a survivor from the embassy attack. Did you examine him?"

"Ah, the Justicar? No, he seemed well enough when I arrived, perhaps overly bandaged, but well enough to give your Captain a headache. You'll have to ask your superior if he managed to make any headway with his questioning since I was not allowed anywhere near the two. Although, at the rate that their conversation was going, you should not expect much."

"The Thalmor are hiding something," Martin shook his head, "There're too many unknowns in this attack."

"The only thing we have to know is that the murderer apparently plans to break into the Palace."

"And I suppose it would be too much to hope that she plans to kill Ulfric once she's inside," Martin said glumly.

"All of it unlikely," interrupted Styrr, "The Blue Palace simply has no weaknesses. Every hidden passage sealed off, every entryway guarded and, of course, I need not mention Wizard Stentor and the magical bubble she has around the place. Our murderer, powerful as she maybe, and even if she somehow gets past being detected by the magical wards, would still need the aid of a small army to get anywhere near Ulfric."

Martin sighed. "Who's to say she doesn't have an army of undead just eager to burst through Stentor's bubble? If Dancer were here he'd suggest we slit Ulfric's throat right now and save everyone the trouble."

"Do that and the Jarl would slit ours. Ulfric is her kill; we just have to make sure she gets it."

"A symbolic time at a symbolic place," Styrr chipped in cheerfully, "Of all people, the Jarl knows the significance of appearances the most."

"She'll be appearing quite the fool if Ulfric escapes."

Styrr smiled. "Your job, not mine, Sergeant. Of course, if there's anything I can do to help…"

Hadvar furrowed his brows. He looked around, only now noticing how literally he was surrounded by death. A hundred feet underground and surrounded by thousands of corpses.

"A dire premonition," he sighed.

"What is?" asked Styrr.

"Nothing." Hadvar was about to say they were leaving when a thought crossed his mind. _A hundred feet under the ground…_ He faced the priest once more. "Perhaps there is something you could help us with. You are the Master of Burials are you not?"

"An olden title but yes, I was once called that."

"Well then perhaps you could help us find one specific corpse buried under the city."

"And whose corpse would that be?"

"Potema Septim's of course."

Both Styrr and Martin looked taken aback. "Easier said than done," the former replied after regaining his composure. "A good plan though, going after her in her home before she intrudes in yours. Good… but vain. There's a whole ruined city beneath our feet and there have been many who have scoured all of Solitude's basements looking for the Wolf Queen's final resting place. Suffice to say, none have found it."

"But I'm sure you have an idea of where to look."

Styrr smiled. "I suppose I've thought about it once or twice. According to viable sources I've uncovered, she was within her palace when her brothers sunk Old Solitude all around her."

"Any way we can get down there?"

"Doubtful. There's no way to…" The priest's voice trailed off, a thoughtful look suddenly appearing in his eyes.

"What is it?"

"Well… Our talk of hidden pathways has me recalling some strange circumstances I've experienced some time past… Tell me; how familiar are you with the name 'Roggvir'?"

Both soldiers were quiet for several seconds before Martin suddenly piped up, "Torygg's death. Roggvir was the Palace guard Captain who let Ulfric walk after the duel. But I thought he was executed?"

"Committed suicide actually. And his family all but vanished into thin air soon afterwards."

"And what's he got to do with anything?" asked Hadvar.

"Well… It was said that he and Torygg discovered a hidden passage. A passage that could get you down into Potema's old haunts."

"That was just a rumor," said Martin, "Besides, both people you just mentioned are dead now so we can hardly go about asking them about it."

"Ah, but that's the part which made all this so strange and memorable for me. As you already know, it is my duty to handle the funeral arrangements for every recently deceased body in the city… and what made Roggvir so difficult to forget was that I never had the opportunity to watch over his funeral… simply because it never happened."

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly as I have said. I had received word that his body would be sent to my halls, and when it didn't, I went about inquiring. The local constable said the Thalmor took Roggvir's body and buried it outside of the city. I took it upon myself to send a letter of complaint to their embassy and received only a response saying the Thalmor had jurisdiction over any and every worshipper of Talos. Not long after, the same constable came to visit me saying that the corpse was actually taken by Roggvir's family when they made their leave of the city. And, to add to all this strangeness, I would receive a missive a few days later from some official in the Palace saying that Lady Elisif had the corpse cremated and that I was ordered to leave the matter to rest. And so I did."

Hadvar frowned. Beside him, Martin had his arms crossed as they both absorbed what they had just heard. "Anything comes into suspicion once the Thalmor are involved," said Martin.

"How do you think this all ties up?" asked Hadvar.

"I can think of a few scenarios. Maybe the Thalmor found this passage and the Wolf Queen's corpse."

"And then what? Animated her and had her terrorize the city? Besides they got attacked themselves. And there's no way they can have been messing around on Palace grounds without anyone noticing."

Hadvar's face twisted into a grimace, his thoughts churning. He paced rapidly to and fro, with the other two waiting patiently in silence. Eventually, something clicked in his mind.

"I need to talk to the Captain," he said abruptly, "I need to know what he found in the embassy. Thank you for your time." He directed the last sentence to Styrr who acknowledged it.

"I don't often get visitors," the priest smiled, "Feel free to come back should there be anything else you'd like to talk about."

Hadvar and Martin both nodded and began walking out of the catacombs. They had only taken a few steps when Martin turned around in an afterthought.

"Was there something else I could help you with, Corporal?"

"I came down here one time before."

"Yes... yes, you have. You came to visit your former captain, Luther Oranius… and before you even ask that question burning in your mind, I shall endeavor to answer it… The answer is 'no'. He was not killed by our Wolf Queen pretender… So have care my friends, because there are now two murderers roaming the streets of Solitude."

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

.

.

Jon Battle-Born, newly assigned Captain of the Forlorn Hope, looked up at the battlements in absolute weariness. Morning was creeping up which meant he hasn't slept for more than a day now. Not to mention his head was still buzzing from his fruitless interrogation of the Justicar Rulindil. The bastard elf would say little, only repeating his scripted story of how he saw nothing but red eyes and the flash of twirling blades. _The killer came for the Ambassador. Four guards dead but they had managed to stop her. No, the Ambassador was definitely the target. The basement? It was just a storage room._

But Jon knew better. You could cover up a torture chamber as much as you could, but you can never get rid of the smell of shit, piss, and blood. The Thalmor must have once held prisoners there, Talos worshipers no doubt. But they'd likely have transferred them out of the city by now. _Damn elves…_

"Coming in, Captain?"

Jon looked back down at the inquiring guard. The latter stood beside another, both guarding the opened gates into Solitude. They were both staring curiously at Jon who had abruptly stopped in the middle of the road in front of them. The captain nodded numbly at the guard before stepping through.

"Keep a hand o'er your purse sir," shouted the guard at his back after he had passed, "It be market day today, last one 'fore the festival. Plenty o' thieves amok."

"Thanks." That explained the surprisingly large number of people already out on the streets despite the early hour. He decided against stopping by the nearby inn, preferring instead to return to the Palace and see if his sergeant had better luck examining the bodies of the dead Thalmor guards. He had been pleased to find Hadvar a calm and reasonable man when they first met. Jon had been attentive when he first introduced himself to the company, and he thought the sergeant's presence had been the only thing stopping him from getting a knife on the back.

He sighed. He wasn't in Whiterun Hold anymore. He wasn't leading soldiers in his father's army. He was here, alone, commanding the most legendary company in Tullius' damned army and guarding the most wanted man in the whole of Skyrim.

Not to mention, he was a Battle-Born. That was the reddest of red flags if there ever was one. He wondered if the killer loose in the city knew who he was. He looked about casually, half expecting to see bright red eyes bearing down on him. Part of him was afraid while the other part was past caring. Perhaps the killer was vengeance made manifest for what the Battle-Born had done. Or rather, for their having done nothing.

He was walking towards the market when he froze in fear and surprise. His head swam as he slowly looked down, expecting to see nothing but a sea of red. Relief came as he realized that he had only stepped ankle deep into a melted puddle of snow. Relief mixed with guilt. _For having done nothing_.

It had begun at the start of Last Seed, some months back. Although highly unusual anywhere else in Tamriel, it came as no great surprise among the denizens of Skyrim when the sunny sky was suddenly engulfed in snow and bitter wind. It was unexpected and risky of course, staging an offensive in the high of a rogue winter storm. But with risks came great rewards.

Whiterun City had been a long-term objective since the start of the war. Not only did it lord over the nearby farmsteads, it was also a roadblock for any potential offensives into the east towards Windhelm, the heart of the Stormcloak lands and Ulfric's own Jarldom.

The engagement began with a procession into what seemed like an obviously disadvantageous battle. When the snow storm was at its strongest, Olfrid Battle-Born burst through the plains and started creeping towards Whiterun City with the main body of his army leading the way. He lost many on the march and he would likely have lost more if the Grey-Mane, having been goaded into battle, had not come out of their city to meet them partway.

The Gray-Mane had the advantage after all; they had warmth in their belly while the Imperials were half frozen from their march through the plains. They surged confidently to meet the main Imperial battle-lines which consisted of nothing more than raw recruits and levied peasants. And so with ease, they pushed back the Imperial van a step, then another, and another.

Their push was near-effortless and progressive, a fact which should have alerted them that something was wrong. Instead, they continued on pushing further into the center with ease. And only when it was too late did they realise their mistake. Perhaps due in part to the heavy snow storm or due to their arrogance, they had failed to realize that the Battle-Born flanks, filled exclusively with the most hardened veterans, had been holding all this time. And when Olfrid had deemed the trap wide enough, he ordered a stop in the main body's intentional retreat.

And just like that, the Grey-Mane army suddenly found themselves almost fully surrounded in a crescent trap. Suffice to say, Olfrid more than made up for his weather-related losses in the Grey-Mane army's mad dash for their city's safety.

The siege was brief and less tactical. After having caught a fair proportion of the remaining Grey-Mane forces in retreat, Olfrid sent unrelenting waves of mass assaults, eventually taking the city without a single engine of siege. A spectacular victory. One that would have been sung joyously by bards.

But that was only before things settled down.

Before the first report came.

It was just a few at first. A statue or two found here and there. Then there were paintings, offering stands, temples. Then it came from the lips of the conquered citizens themselves.

Talos was everywhere in the city. Worshipped in the open. His name spoken freely. Talos, the once mortal God.

The Thalmor response was swift. The elves—who technically instigated the war in the first place—had been content to just watch the civil war by the sidelines at first; but when news came of Talos' presence everywhere in the captured city, they invoked their rights as per the White-Gold Concordat. They bore down onto Whiterun, sword on one hand and the Emperor's blessing on the other. Every Talos-worshipping man, woman, and child was to be rounded up and confined. And when they captured as many of the fleeing ones as they could, the executions began in earnest.

Jon was there in the plaza at the first day. There he stood in the beginning with the rest of the Battle-Born. And there he remained unmoving when night finally came.

…_when the blood in the plaza reached up to his ankles_.


	5. When Strangers Gather

**1.03 When Strangers Gather  
><strong>

There was, as eloquently as she could put it, a smattering of drunks and layabouts all around her inn, mostly by the lit hearth fire. A few of the individuals looked the shifty sort, though she knew they'll not be doing any mischief while under her roof. Mostly because the rest of her clientele were Battle-Born soldiers retired from the day watch. And perhaps partly because of the massive Orc that had been leaning against the counter throwing questions at her.

Even some of her usual rowdy patrons had been reasonably well behaved, keeping their feely hands to themselves. The Orc was menacing to say the least, but it was not just him that had brought a profound effect on the regulars. There had been an edged silence within the inn, broken only by the dissonant twanging of a bard's instrument.

It wasn't just the Orc, it was all the other newcomers too. For so many to have gathered in one place...

Although a few, like the bard, had entered earlier, there had been three groups of strangers in general. First, there were the priests who were not priests. Then came the Orc and his noble-looking employer. And finally, there was the third bunch, the ragged ones, all sweaty and caked in travel dust. It was of interesting note that the three groups had also all departed in the same order that they had arrived.

She considered the last group's arrival as the apex of that strange evening. Their hasty entrance led to an even hastier retreat , an event which barely lasted a minute. What followed after was the sudden and abrupt departure of the first two groups.

The Orc had been the first to follow after the third group. Having forced himself to recover from the shock of recognition, he then rushed past the doors to give chase, his mismatched companions of the second group struggling to follow after him.

Not long after, a somewhat heated discussion erupted in the priests' table which eventually ended with one of the priests, the one with the beautiful but inhuman eyes, to quickly follow after. It was not clear to the bartender however as to who he was in pursuit of, although she surmised it was the Orc considering how intense the priest's gaze was when the second group had first entered the tavern.

The night was strange indeed. And to the lady proprietor of the Bannered Mare, this night ranked high among the strangest of them all. There was a significance to this night which she knew was there but simply could not grasp. Whatever it was, she was not involved in it. Nor did she want to be.

But perhaps she played a more or less minor role: as host and mistress of ceremonies to whatever and whoever came tumbling through the inn's doors. Soldiers with broken souls… priests who were not priests…

A confusing evening in truth, but later that night, while in bed, she would try to remember how it all transpired, word for word. And although she would have had no way of knowing what had happened next after the strangers left her tavern in chase of one another, she could at least recount how it all began…

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

.

.

The priests who were not priests comprised the first group. Three pairs of eyes stared placidly at her. Three hooded figures they were, surrounding her almost menacingly yet with a certain lawful civility made evident in their tactful manners and speech. Granted, only one of them was doing the talking so far. And he had the strangest eyes.

"As I was saying, lady proprietor, we are simply inquiring about a letter addressed to us that may have been delivered here," said the man. His eyes seemed to glint a different hue every time his jaw muscles moved. His other two companions were just as mysterious. One was middle-aged with a permanent scowl and a long beard, and the other his opposite, a youthful Breton with a jovial gaze which helped lower the bartender's guard a little bit.

They had not introduced themselves so, in turn, the bartender refrained from doing the same. She decided to name them as Spooky, Grumpy and Horny respectively. She also contented herself to being called 'madame proprietor' by Spooky, 'woman' by Grumpy, and 'my lady' by Horny.

After she had amused herself with her name-making talents, she realized that the others were still waiting for her response. After another prolonged moment of them staring at each other, she finally shook her head and stalked back behind the counter. Behind it, a door leading to a back room was left ajar.

"You'll have to take a seat then," she said to the three, "It might take me a while of rummaging to find your letter in all that mess." She jerked a thumb towards the opened back door. Inside the room, all sorts of junk from kitchen utensils to stacks of bundled paper were piled up everywhere.

"Still trying to get this place up and fully running," the bartender sighed.

Horny, the youthful one, smiled sympathetically at her. "The same goes for the rest of the city it seems. But I think you one of the more fortunate ones as it appears you still have a roof and a working cellar. I'm told this was the most favored watering hole for Talos worshippers due to its proximity to their temple. I would have thought such an establishment—and its owner—would have received undue interest from the Thalmor."

The bartender looked at him with a mixed stare. "It did," she said bluntly, "And so did its owner."

Saying nothing more, she led them to a table by the wall close to the bar but as far away as possible from the nearest Battle-Born soldier.

Once they were seated, the bartender passed around three not-quite-clean mugs before leaving and returning with a stone jug and a plate of hard bread. She raised a brow at Horny, glared at Grumpy, and stared curiously once again at Spooky's eyes. Finally, once she had satisfied her curiosity, she shrugged and stalked away towards the back office. Unbeknownst to the three however, she could easily hear their conversation.

"You really have to do something about those eyes of yours," Horny said glumly. He placed his elbows on the table and rested his head on his hands. He looked past the bar, trying to catch wistful glimpses of the bartender through the half-opened door. "That's the third woman you've scared away since our journey from the north."

"She didn't seem scared. And if I'm not mistaken, the first woman you refer to was the Jarl of Morthal. Even if I did not have these eyes she'd still have figured out what I am. She's a seer that one. And perhaps forty winters too old for you," replied Spooky.

"She's good vintage," Horny smiled to the obvious disapproval of Grumpy, their older companion. "What of the second woman then, hmm? Not that I would have taken it any further with someone as young as her, but still, she had shown great interest in me."

"You would prey on a child too?" interrupted Grumpy, "A deadly one at that. And she only pretended to be interested in you because she probably heard how we've been sniffing around Morthal for her. The Guildmistress will not be happy that we failed to dispatch her." He glanced accusingly at Spooky.

The latter shrugged slightly. "It was very much unexpected for our target, Babette as she called herself, to be what she was. Although if you will allow me to defend myself, the formal request for aid we received prior to our arrival to Hjaalmarch said nothing about vampires. Besides, the Jarl was plenty pleased enough that we had scared her and her Dark Brotherhood ilk away."

"Which brings up the question," Horny spoke up, "Who was the Brotherhood's target? The Jarl?"

"Can't have been. If she were the target, she'd have been taken out a long time ago. That and she said something to me about having seen her own death and it wasn't going to be in the hands of assassins. No; whoever Babette was contracted to kill was someone hidden from plain view, meaning she was still looking for him or her when we arrived."

"So maybe Babette didn't actually flee from us. Maybe it was her target that we scared out of Morthal and she simply followed after."

"Maybe. Makes sense actually… whatever the case, she's no longer our problem unless we run into her again. We've secured Morthal as ordered, now let's just see what the Guildmistress has in store for us next in her letter."

"Ah, which then brings us to the third woman," Horny smiled as the bartender popped back out with a rolled-up parchment on hand. He continued smiling as she came over and attempted to hand it over to the strange-eyed man. Grumpy however snatched it away from her with a look that said 'finally' and 'about time'.

The bartender glowered at him and then at Horny who was about to say something forward but stopped short after seeing her demeanor. Her pout quickly changed into a smile however when the latter handed over several coin pieces.

"You priests staying for the night?" she asked.

"We're not priests, fool woman," muttered Grumpy without looking up from the parchment he was reading, "And we're not staying in this rundown pig-sty any longer than we have to."

He made a shooing gesture at the bartender before looking at his two companions. He handed the letter to Spooky. "We have our orders. We're to go—"

He was disrupted by a sharp gust of cold wind as the front doors of the inn swung open and in came the second group. _Stranger looking than these three hooded ones_, thought the bartender.

Horny brandished an even wider smile after seeing the newcomers. As for Spooky, he remained calm and unperturbed when the group entered although he instinctively reached into his cloak to grip the blackened mace he had under it.

As for Grumpy, he had initially given the newcomers no more than a cursory look but his eyes snapped quickly back up with intensity. He blinked his eyes repeatedly, trying to bring back what he thought he had seen when the doors first opened. Before long, he was rewarded for his efforts when the heavy magic swirling around the new arrivals like a thick fog materialized. From the back of his mind, his guild training alerted him to that all too common feeling of danger. And it was coming from the second group.

"Are they of your kind?" he asked softly.

Spooky subtly shook his head, his demeanor suddenly turning even more serious than usual. "I don't know. They are human… except for one. A disguise…? No… There is… something."

"Keep your medallions hidden," said Grumpy, "Nights in Morthal bring strange bedfellows, but here they are stranger still. And for the love of all that's holy, wipe that perverted grin off your face, Celann."

He directed the last sentence to Horny who was staring, quite happily, at one of the newcomers.

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

.

.

A full half hour later, the last and third group of strangers would arrive… only two but perhaps there were more who waited outside.

Sweat glistened at their foreheads and travel dust coated their boots all the way up their legs. Weapons were strapped on almost every limb. No blood. No signs of having recently come from a scuffle. But they clearly traveled far and fast without stopping. A sense of urgency. Perhaps fear? Whatever the case, they were quickly and subtly measured by every person in the inn.

A couple of drunks were the exception as they remained passed out and thus disinterested when they made their entry. As for the rest of the inn's occupants… there were a number of patrons, most of them Battle-Born soldiers. The rest however were of more interesting note to the man and woman who just entered.

There was the bartender, an unknown girl, who had been in deep conversation with a giant of an Orc. Also, seated at the farthest table was a group of hooded individuals who had ill-concealed weapons under their cloaks. They had a strange aura emanating from them, almost magical in a way. And lastly, by the fire, was a bard who had been rattling off an out-of-tune medley from his instrument much to the delight of some noble-born sitting in front of him. All of them, every single one, unrecognizable.

"At least there are no elves," muttered the male Nord.

"Hush," said the other of the two, the woman whose most obvious weapons were two blades crisscrossed on her back.

"The Thalmor don't drink anywhere outside of Dragonsreach," called out the bartender, "Lesser chance of them getting slit in the throat."

One of the Battle-Born chuckled loudly before getting back to his drink. The two newcomers drew little interest from the soldiers and the excitement of their arrival soon petered away. The woman however could still feel the priests' penetrating gaze on her. She headed for the bar, ignoring the Orc who, for some reason, was staring open mouthed at her.

"Where's Hulda?" she asked the bartender.

"Halfway to Hammerfell right about now. I'm Ysolda. Hulda's left me the run of the place until she gets back."

"And when did she say that would be?"

"When the Empire grows back its balls. Her own words. I'm guessing that means never."

The woman with the blades sighed and looked back at her accomplice who had elected to stay by the inn's entrance. The latter was glaring at the group of hooded priests, one of who was now also glaring back intensely.

She frowned and examined the group more closely. They were mostly nondescript in appearance, save for one with a thick beard holding a scroll. Then her attention moved to one of the men sitting by the bearded man's side. He was staring right at her. One eye red, the other orange.

_Trouble_.

The woman looked away, suddenly feeling a rush of adrenaline as she tried to hide herself from the hooded man's view by standing closer to the large Orc. She had seen those eyes before. In Morthal. Were they after us too?

She could feel her blood coursing through her body and she had to refrain herself from ripping out the swords on her back and making a mad dash for the exit. She debated on what to do next but was spared further thinking when Ysolda snapped her fingers.

"I know you," the bartender and latest owner of the Bannered Mare began, "You're—"

"—Aela," finished the Orc in a half-whisper.

"Hush." The woman glared at Ysolda and then at the Orc before rapidly walking towards the exit. She pulled her sidekick's arm along the way, not daring to look once again at the hooded man or at anyone else in the room.

His companion was about to voice a complaint but remained silent instead after seeing the look in Aela's eyes. He knew better than to protest. Something had spooked Aela—which was not an easy feat to accomplish—and it was best to keep vigil and follow her lead without fail until she thought it safe to do otherwise.

Once outside, they kept walking past the plaza without a word spoken between them. They wandered aimlessly without direction with Aela looking back every now and again to make sure they weren't being followed. And only when she was certain, did she abruptly make a sharp turn into a darkened alley where they slowed down to a stop.

"What was that all about?" his dark companion asked, slightly out of breath. He leaned against a wall and rested a bit but with eyes constantly flicking to the alley entrance, half expecting some form of enemy to come bursting through it any second.

"The priests. Hunters. The dangerous kind."

"All priests are."

"I know. But those ones, they were in Morthal. For them to have also arrived here in Whiterun, before us even…"

"A coincidence?"

"Can't be. I sensed danger all over."

"Kodlak's wounds still need attending to."

"I know, let me think."

"We could check Arcadia's shop; see if she's still around."

"No, she was one of the first to go when the executions started happening."

"Damn. She wasn't even a Nord."

"Tell that to the Thalmor… We have to try for the temples. They've got to have a healer in one of them."

"The Wind District's crawling with Battle-Born and elves, we won't make it past three feet before being recognized."

"Well damn it to hell, do you have a better idea?"

Her dark-haired comrade stared at her with ghostly eyes. "No, I suppose not."

"Didn't think so," Aela growled before punching him on the chest, "Come on, let's—"

She suddenly whirled around, sending another fist flying except this time she directed it towards the shadow that loomed behind her. Her fist was easily caught by a monstrous hand which effortlessly spun her around, trapping her other arm between her back and the intruder's chest.

"Easy with that axe, Vilkas," said the giant shadow as he restrained Aela with a powerful bear hug.

"You know my name, Orc?" said Vilkas with an axe suddenly on hand, ready to be swung.

"Yeah I do. Thought it was Farkas at first but if it was him he'd have been swinging that axe already." The Orc loosened his grip on Aela and the latter pushed herself away to stand beside Vilkas. She then drew both her blades.

The Orc did not move and she took advantage of the pause to lift one sword up horizontally right in front of her eyes and the other pulled back over her shoulder, cocked and ready to be brought down in one swift swing.

"You know our names," she spat, "High time you mentioned yours."

The Orc lumbered forward until her blade's edge touched his mail. "I've told you many times before that stance won't work on larger opponents like me. Someone slender like you needs to take full advantage of every length of their sword. Distance is your shield and weapon."

Aela faltered, the familiar words invoking memories of past training sessions she had in the Gray-Mane clan's martial yard. She'd never won against him because she was too distracted. Perhaps infatuated. But wait. That was someone else, someone long gone…

"For now, call me Morihaus," intoned the Orc. From his sides materialized the bard from the inn, who gaped at their brandished weapons with an impressed look, and the noble-born, a regal woman who sneered and muttered under her breath the Hunting God's name, which only Aela heard and which made her blood go cold. _She knows_.

"Answer me two things," said Morihaus, interrupting her thoughts, "What the hell are you two doing back in Whiterun and where in Talos' name is my sister?"

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

.

.

Note (January 1, 2013):

I just wanted to say 2 things. First is that I'm shortening the chapter sizes considerably even more. This one was a little over 3000 words and I'll be sticking with that for a few more chapters onwards, just to see how it goes. The previous two chapters were 5000 words each. And the first two, the Prologue ones, were around 7500 apiece. Anyway, let me know what you think about the changes.

Second thing I wanted to say… Happy New Year!

Note (January 2, 2013):

Revisions ongoing thanks to sharp-eyed peoples' reviews and PMs. Thanks =)


End file.
